A    DREAM 

OF 

THE    ADIRONDACKS 

And  Other  Poems 


BY 


HELEN  HINSDALE  RICH 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK  :    27   &   29   WEST   23D   ST. 
LONDON  :    25   HENRIETTA  ST. ,  COVENT  GARDEN 

l884 


COPYRIGHT   BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

1884 


Press  of 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 
New  York. 


TO    THE     MEMORY    OF 

THE  GOOD 
PETER     COOPER 


M191888 


INTRODUCING   THE    POET. 


Helen  Hinsdale  Rich,  the  author  of  these  verses, 
was  born  in  Antwerp,  Jefferson  County,  New  York, 
in  1827,  in  a  log-cabin  on  the  farm  cleared  by  her 
father,  Ira  Hinsdale.  He  was  one  of  the  pioneers 
of  that  region,  and  had  moved  there  from  Massa 
chusetts  but  a  few  years  before.  It  will  readily  be 
understood  that  Helen  Hinsdale  had  small  advan 
tage  of  schooling  in  her  girlhood,  and  she  was  mar 
ried  at  the  age  of  twenty  ;  her  culture,  as  it  appears 
in  this  volume,  has  been  gained  by  the  devotion  of 
hours  seized  from  the  engrossing  domestic  cares  of 
a  busy  and  faithful  wife  and  mother.  With  these 
cares,  moreover,  she  has  joined  for  many  years  an 
untiring  service  to  her  kind  by  writing  and  speaking 
in  the  causes  of  temperance,  woman's  rights,  and 
whatever  work  appeared  to  her  warm  and  earnest 
heart  as  tending  to  the  betterment  of  society.  She 
has  thus  been  prominent  in  the  work  of  the  Uni- 
versalist  denomination,  and  earned  a  place  in  the 
book  of  "The  Working  Women  of  Our  Church," 
published  some  years  ago.  Her  husband,  Mr. 


VI  INTRODUCING    THE    POET. 

Moses  Rich,  a  manufacturer  of  Brasher  Falls,  died 
recently,  and  her  activities,  so  long  well-known  and 
prized  in  Northern  New  York,  have  been  transferred 
to  the  West,  her  present  residence  being  with  her 
married  daughter  in  St.  Joseph,  Missouri. 

As  a  lecturer,  and  as  a  contributor  to  newspapers 
of  high  standing,  and  to  magazines,  of  essays  and 
stories,  but  especially  of  poems,  Mrs.  Rich  has 
already  won  a  considerable  audience,  and  such 
appreciative  praise  as  justifies  her  in  this  approach 
to  a  larger  and  more  critical  hearing.  This  modest 
volume  of  verse  is  to  be  regarded  first  as  the  natural 
and  indeed  needful  expression  of  her  ardent  hu 
manity  ;  it  is  that  vital  force  that  has  moved  her  to 
verse,  just  as  it  has  to  work.  The  book  is  a  selec 
tion,  not  a  collection  ;  it  cannot  claim  to  contain 
all  the  best  verse  of  its  author  ;  but  it  does  fairly 
represent  a  woman's  life  such  as  Mrs.  Rich's  has 
been  and  continues  to  be.  The  knowledge  of  the 
few  facts  I  have  mentioned,  however,  though  it  will 
and  should  contribute  to  the  interest  felt  by  the 
readers  of  her  verse,  is  surely  no  way  needed  to 
awaken  and  to  hold  that  interest. 

Mrs.  Rich's  work  possesses  a  distinct  literary 
quality  which  entitles  her  to  a  place  among  the 


INTRODUCING    THE    POET.  Vll 

minor  poets  of  the  country.  She  does  not  traverse 
a  wide  range  ;  dwells  for  the  most  part  on  home 
feeling  and  country  life  ;  but  she  imparts  to  her 
chosen  themes  the  poetical  charm  which  every  one 
can  recognize,  but  few  can  express.  Her  treatment 
is  simple,  but  never  baldly  simple  ;  without  any 
search  after  originality,  she  yet  attains  it  by  a 
natural  and  happy  choice  of  language  and  rhythm. 
A  fortunate  instance  of  this  is  the  poem  "Die, 
Sweet  June,"  which  is  a  strain  of  vivid  melody,  and 
contains  exquisite  phrases, — such  as  "  The  revelry 
of  golden  throats,"  which  brings  immediate  vision 
of  flashing  orioles  and  echo  of  bobolinks.  Mrs. 
Rich's  sense  of  the  loveliness  of  earth,  keen  in  all 
phases,  becomes  almost  passionate  for  flowers,  as  in 
the  poems  "  Death  and  Roses  "  and  "  Naming  the 
Flower."  She  gives  value  to  the  memory  of  friends 
and  of  childhood,  and  to  the  emotions  of  mother 
hood  rare  and  even  profound  expression.  What  is 
more  true  than  this  poignant  thought  ? — 

"  I  think  the  sting  of  death  must  be 
Resigning  love's  sweet  mastery  ; 
To  bid  our  little  ones  Good-night, 
To  turn  from  home  and  its  delight, — 
Even  with  all  of  heaven  in  sight." 

Read,  too,  her  sympathy  with  mother  and  wean- 


Vlll  INTRODUCING    THE    POET. 

ling  in  "Forbidden  Fruit,"  and  the  touching  appeal 
of  the  unloved  child  in  "Famished."  Mrs.  Rich 
writes  eloquently  on  the  dignity  of  labor  and  the 
honor  of  serving  our  fellows,  as  the  lines  to  Peter 
Cooper,  to  Theodore  Parker  and  Wendell  Phillips, 
on  "  The  Music  of  Labor,"  and  the  vigorous  satire 
of  "Wanted,  Men"  testify.  Her  narrative  poems 
are  on  this  motive,  with  the  exception  of  the  clever 
mining-camp  story  of  "  Justice  in  Leadville  " — an 
experiment  that  Mrs.  Rich  had  as  good  right  to 
make  as  John  Hay  ;  and  that,  as  well  as  the  others, 
is  admirably  told,  with  a  direct  and  rapid  movement. 
In  a  few  poems  the  author  exhibits  a  power  of 
tragic  concentration  which,  oftener  used,  would 
have  deepened,  and  changed  also,  the  impression 
the  volume  makes.  These  poems  are  "  North " 
(whose  subject  is  the  suicide  of  a  young  poet), 
"Lost,"  and  "Two  Little  Graves."  It  is,  perhaps, 
as  well  that  Mrs.  Rich  has  not  indulged  in  this  vein, 
for  of  tragedy  there  are  many  morbid  hymnists,  and 
never  too  many  sweet  and  natural  singers  of  the 
holiest  affections  and  the  healthiest  dispositions  of 
our  humanity.  Love,  labor,  hope,  and  Christian 
trust  are  the  inspirations  of  this  poet. 

CHARLES  G.  WHITING. 
SPRINGFIELD,  Mass.,y«#<?,  1884. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  Dream  of  the  Adirondacks          .....  i 

May  Song 7 

'The  Boy's  Kiss 9 

Die,  Sweet  June n 

Little  Wounds 13 

Morning  and  Evening  Glories     .         .         .         .         .  15 

In  the  Hammock  ........  16 

My  Lotus  Flower .  .  18 

My  Old  Home 20 

Pansies 26 

One  who  Died 28 

Old  Letters 31 

Home-Light           ........  34 

Thanksgiving  Phantoms      ......  36 

Death  and  Roses 38 

Christmas  Tryst 40 

Silent  Mothers 44 

Lost  and  Found          .......  46 

My  Guests 48 

Forbidden  Fruit 51 

A  Valentine 54 


X  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

Thanksgiving  Eve       .......  57 

Famished       .........  60 

Christmas  Eve 62 

Estranged 65 

The  Lights  of  Lynn 66 

Child  and  Soldier 69 

The  Angel  in  the  Heart 72 

The  Eternal  Plan 74 

Music  of  Labor           .                  76 

Wanted — Men 80 

Chicago 85 

North 87 

Invocation 89 

If  Only 92 

Think  Noble  Things  of  God 94 

The  Engineer's  Story 97 

Justice  in  Leadville    .         .         .         .         .         .         .  104 

Company  K   .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  113 

Guess  Who? 116 

Only  a  Woman 118 

Compensation 124 

Little  Phil 126 

Survival      .........  130 

Could  We  But  Know  ! 131 

Theodore  Parker         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  133 

Emerson 134 

Wendell  Phillips 135 

Peter  Cooper 136 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Naming  the  Flower 

Reluctance 

With  a  Sea-Shell I46 

Red  Roses I48 

Orient '« 

Remember  Me I5° 

Girl  and  Water-Lily I51 

Lost 

Two  Little  Graves I55 

In  Remembrance 

The  Brook l6° 

The  Grave l64 

Nocturne                 l6? 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  ADIRONDACKS. 


O  mystic  mountains  !  sleeping  in  tne  dim 

Celestial  blue  of  yonder  throbbing  haze, 
Purpling  horizon's  cloud-caressing  rim, 

Fading  to  mist  before  my  yearning  gaze, 
Speak  to  my  spirit  of  your  beauty  wild  ; 

Waft  me  the  sighs  of  piney  monarchs  old ; 
Whisper  your  legends  never  yet  defiled 

By  breath  of  fashion  or  debasing  gold. 

Tell  me  bold  deeds  of  huntsmen,  brave  and  grim ; 

Stout  Hiawathas,  in  the  deadly  strife 
Of  love  with  famine,  till  my  eyelids  swim, 

And  soul  stands  quivering  'mid  the  woes  of  life. 


2  A    DREAM    OF    THE    ADIRONDACK^ 

Sick  of  the  shallow  nothingness  that  fills 

The  idle  sails  of  folly's  airy  bark, 
Pleading  for  nature,  and  for  truth  that  thrills 

The  brain  with  fire  from  its  immortal  spark. 

Chant  me,  ye  breezes,  as  those  torrents  hymn 

Sublimest  praises  to  the  Father  there, — 
While  the  rich  blossoms  fairy  lakes  shall  limn, 

Angels  may  stir  with  breath  of  holy  prayer. 
Waft  me  the  incense  hoarded  in  the  cells 

Of  saintly  lilies,  as  the  Aves  float 
From  glens  responsive  to  the  song  that  swells 

From  shining  waters  or  some  bird's  soft  throat. 

Snow-lighted  mountain,  somewhere  in  the  rift 
Of  splintered  gorge,  or  on  thy  summit  calm, 

In  elfin  grotto,  holdest  thou  the  gift 

Of  perfect  rest,  of  sorrow's  precious  balm  ? 

Within  the  silence  of  thy  columned  fane, 
Deep  in  thy  sylvan  solitude,  there  lies 


A    DREAM    OF    THE    ADIRONDACKS.  3 

A  charm  to  bring  forgetfulness  of  pain, 
And  sleep  serene  to  weary,  waiting  eyes  ; 

Where  some  fierce  titan,  smitten  from  his  throne, 

The  sceptred  king  of  all  the  mountain  world, 
Crushed  in  the  conflict,  maketh  saddest  moan 

Beneath  the  wreck  of  granite  masses  hurled  ; 
Or,  poised  in  heaven,  above  the  eaglet's  scream, 

To  trace  the  rivers,  faint  as  silver  bars  ; 
Of  life  beyond  to  ponder  and  to  dream  ; 

At  night  to  feel  the  heart-beat  of  the  stars  ; 

To  stand  supreme  upon  the  sovran  rock 

Where  Alpine  flowers  bedeck  the  brow  of  storm  ; 
To  smile  exultingly  above  the  shock 

Of  thunders  terrible,  in  dusky  form  ; 
To  hold  high  converse  with  primeval  things  ; 

Alone  with  awful  mysteries,  to  press 
The  pulse  of  centuries  ;  to  fold  the  wings 

Of  restless  thought  in  heavenly  blissfulness. 


4  A    DREAM    OF    THE    ADIRONDACKS. 

Never  to  thee,  thou  white  and  peerless  thing, 

Whose  golden  heart  the  crystal  waters  lave, 
The  hot,  fierce  breath  of  monster  steam  shall  bring 

Destroying  whisper  where  thy  banners  wave. 
O  gorgeous  linden  !  golden  to  the  tips 

Of  leaves  that  flutter  in  the  azure  tide, 
No  murky  shadows  on  the  breast  that  dips 

The  cloud  with  songful  joyousness  and  pride. 

Forever  barred,  ye  flaunting,  soulless  forms, 

Shaming  our  nature  with  the  sickly  growth 
Of  all  that  braves  the  bitter,  biting  storms 

Of  Fortune, — victims  of  consuming  sloth. 
Never  the  drawling  lisp,  the  brainless  speech, 

The  laugh  unmeaning,  the  envenomed  shaft 
Of  slander  to  those  fair  abodes  shall  reach, 

Nor  shrewd  diplomacy  employ  his  craft. 

Hoar  Adirondacks  !   sentinels  to  me, 

Guarding  the  realm  of  poesy,  where  lies 


A    DREAM    OF    THE    ADIRONDACKS. 

The  pure,  the  beautiful,  the  grandly  free  ! 

The  slumbering  heart  of  Nature  prophesies 
Of  Time's  fulfilment  of  man's  broader  life, 

The  unstirred  depths  of  being,  love  divine 
O'ermastering  selfishness  and  deathful  strife, 

Mind's  own  enchanted  and  enchanting  clime. 

Thanks  to  His  power,  the  weird  and  dusky  fells, 

Heights  still  unclimbed  the  tangled  ivies  drape, 
Shield  the  great  oracle  that  yet  repels 

All  that  the  world's  weak  vanities  would  ape, — 
One  sacred  shelter  from  the  rushing  mart, 

One  august  temple  consecrate  to  Him 
Before  whose  majesty  the  human  heart 

Trembles  to  see  earth's  pageantry  wax  dim. 

Within  these  shades  the  poet  yet  to  be, 

Some  bard,  like  Avon's  swan,  divinely  fraught, 

Probing  thy  secrets,  rock  and  shell  and  tree, 
All  the  sweet  wisdom  science  vainly  taught 


6  A    DREAM    OF    THE    ADIRONDACKS. 

To  his  clear  vision  gloriously  revealed  ; 

His  harp  repeats  the  melodies  that  stir 
The  myriad  forms  of  loveliness  that  yield 

Supreme  delight  to  reverent  worshiper. 

In  the  far  ages  hence — the  peaceful  days 

Of  men  who  reach  the  stature  like  to  His, 
And  walk  secure  in  God's  illumined  ways, 

While  all  love  prayed  and  sighed  for  surely  is- 
This  our  Arcadia,  fresh  and  green  as  first 

In  the  creation's  glad,  effulgent  morn, 
Its  crowning  peaks  in  lofty  splendor  burst, 

And  all  of  vast  sublimity  was  born. 


MAY  SONG. 

Let  me  see  !  It  was  May,  for  an  oriole  came, 

With  its  crest  of  vermilion  and  jet, 
Darting  down  like  an  arrow  of  radiant  flame, 

In  a  song  I  shall  never  forget  ; 
And  flooding  the  air  with  a  melody  wild, 

Half  sorrow,  half  passion,  and  pain. 
The  years  faded  slowly  ;  I  stood  there  a  child, 

With  a  child's  holy  rapture  again. 

Ah,  yes,  it  was  May  ;  for  the  violets  blue 
That  I  crushed  in  my  palms  in  my  glee, 

With  gentle  reproach,  shedding  tear-drops  of  dew, 
Found  pity  and  refuge  with  thee  ; 


8  MAY   SONG. 

It  was  May  in  the  valley,  on  meadow  and  hill, 
And  you  kissed  me,  you  know,  by  the  birch 

That  stands  by  the  little,  wild,  frolicsome  rill, 
Where  the  robins  come  always  to  perch. 

It  was  May  in  my  heart,  every  folding  and  cell 

In  imperial  purple  (all  sovereigns  may  wear)  ; 
May  danced  in  my  eyes  that  reflected  so  well 

Thy  face  lighting  up  all  the  beautiful  there  ; 
It  was  May  !  It  was  May  !  for  you  said  with  a  sigh 

"  I  love  you  ;  remember  it  ages  to  come  ; 
It  will  never  be  May  to  me  more,  if  you  fly, 

Then  hasten  to  tell  me  you  pine  for  your  home.1 


THE  BOY'S  KISS. 


Sitting  by  a  princely  child 
Never  yet  by  sin  defiled, 
Gazing  in  his  fearless  eyes, 
Who  shall  picture  my  surprise  ? 

When  I  stroked  his  bonnie  hair, 
And  his  forehead  smooth  and  fair, 
Drawing  to  his  lips  my  hand, 
Like  a  knight  of  Holy  Land, 

As  the  touch  of  roses  pressed 
To  a  sleeping  baby's  breast, 
On  my  soul  I  felt  a  kiss,— 
Match  me  lady's  boon  like  this  ! 
9 


10  THE    BOY  S   KISS. 

Never  ring  shall  take  the  place 
Of  this  tender  kiss  of  grace  ; 
Other  lips  may  never  dare 
Find  the  secret  nestled  there. 

Darling  boy,  the  twilight  dies 
Softer  for  thy  loving  eyes  ; 
Not  a  path  thy  feet  have  trod 
But  shall  wear  a  greener  sod. 

And  thy  laughter,  glad  and  low, 
Lingers  where  sweet  roses  grow  ; 
All  the  world  has  something  yet 
Of  the  kiss  I  ne'er  forget, — 

Like  the  subtle  perfume  shed 
From  the  dust  of  lilies  dead 
Some  dear  hand  in  mute  caress 
Gave  to  love  and — silentness. 


DIE,  SWEET   JUNE. 


Ring  all  thy  lily  bells,  thy  royal  colors  fly, 

Sweet  June,  and  die  ! 
The  burden  of  her  flowery  state  she  bore, 

Till  heart  could  bear  no  more 
The  revelry  of  golden  throats,  perfumes 

Of  all  the  dear,  dead  Junes. 
The  phantom  rose-leaves  drifting  faint  and  wan, 

Slow  fading  in  the  sun, 
Remembered  kisses  by  the  pansy  bed, 

Vows  that  were  said, 
Soft  dreaming  eyes  of  loved  ones  passed  away 

Haunt  the  still  day. 
The  vanished  sighs,  the  thrilling  touch  of  hands, 

In  death's  far  lands. 


12  DIE,    SWEET    JUNE. 

All  the  impassioned  loveliness  that  smiled 

On  thee,  fair  child. 
Oh  !  rose-crowned  daughter  of  a  deathless  sire, 

Too  fierce  the  fire 
That  poured  its  amber  tide  along  thy  veins; 

Too  strong  the  chains 
That  bound  thy  spirit  to  the  unburied  past  : 

Peace,  June,  at  last  ! 


LITTLE  WOUNDS. 

You  hurt  me,  child  !   Nay,  it  was  not  the  point 
Of  the  bright  dagger  with  the  gleaming  hilt 
Of  pearls  and  turquoise  looping  up  the  mass 
Of  braided  splendor,  your  dark  chestnut  hair  ; 
Nor  yet  the  bunch  of  roses  at  your  belt, 
That  well  might  hide  a  thorn.     Alack  ! 
You  pierced  my  bosom  with  your  softest  smile, 
And  turned  the  weapon  in  the  aching  wound 
By  just  an  accent  of  your  dainty  French 
I  toiled  to  give  you,  writing  half  the  night. 
Ah,  well !  girls  never  feel  the  stabs  they  give, 
Whilst  they  are  girls.     *     *     * 
Grand  lovers  push  us  from  our  darling's  heart  ; 
And  when  the  little  hands  that  plead  for  us 


14  LITTLE    WOUNDS. 

Are  tugging  at  the  old  home  memories, 

And  urging  our  lost  claims  with  cooing  sweet, 

Until  they  stir  Love's  fountain  to  its  depths, 

Then  crying  :  "  Mother,  mother,  now  I  know  !  " 

Alas,  the  pity  !  but  we  cannot  hear, 

For  mother  robins  singing  over  us. 


MORNING  AND  EVENING  GLORIES. 


All  my  sweet  trumpeters,  the  Morning  Glories, 
With  pallid  lips  are  lying  chill  and  wan  ; 

The  brilliant  troop  that  clambered  to  the  stories 
Nearest  the  clouds,  and  heralded  the  sun. 

I  count  my  dear  departed,  with  misgiving 

That  nevermore  their  splendors  I  shall  know, — 

My  frail  glad  beauties,  fairest  of  all  living, 
With  Tyrian  dyes,  or  whiter  than  the  snow  ! 

From  dawn  to  eve  I  dwelt  among  the  shadows, 
But  when  red  sunset  streamed  on  pane  and  vase, 

The  Evening  Glory,  white  as  ermined  meadows, 
Burst  forth  in  regal  loveliness  and  grace. 

O  robes  of  samite  !  breath  of  lilies  lying 

Faint  with  excess  of  sweetness,  where  the  sun 
Smiles  first  and  longest !  Faith's  pure  signal  flying, 

That  morning's  loss  the  starry  night  has  won  ! 
15 


IN    THE    HAMMOCK. 


Swayed  like  a  sleeping  flower,  young  lone  lies  ; 

The  golden  stream  of  ringlets  overflows 

The  silken  net  of  lavender  and  pearl ; 

The  palm  of  one  enchanting  passive  hand, 

Like  rose  upturned  to  meet  entreating  gaze 

Of  yon  red  star,  rests  at  the  hammock's  edge  ; 

The  dainty  model  of  a  perfect  foot, 

Like  lily  dropped  amid  the  jasmine  bloom, 

Beats  the  soft  measure  of  a  dreaming  dance  ; 

The  cheek  that  blushes  for  its  loveliness 

Dimples  the  satin  pillow  wooingly  ; 

Smiles  break  like  sunshine  on  a  hill's  fair  side, 

And  should  she  weep,  the  bending  skies  would  seem 

To  rain  bright  gems  that  purchase  as  they  fall 

The  hearts  of  mortals.     Ah  !  her  lovely  eyes 
16 


IN    THE    HAMMOCK.  17 

Have  drunk  the  sweetness  of  the  twilight  hour, 
And  droop  like  pansies,  burthened  with  the  dew  ; 
The  perfumed  breath  just  stirs  the  fleecy  lace 
Upon  her  bosom,  as  a  white  cloud  drifts 
Before  the  orbed  blossom  of  the  night ; 
Adoring  winds,  on  poised,  expectant  wing, 
Between  their  kisses  whisper  :  Love  doth  sleep. 


MY   LOTUS    FLOWER. 


One  sang  within  her  ivied  bower  : 
The  summer  dies,  the  summer  dies  ; 

I  held  it  to  my  happy  breast, 

I  laid  me  in  its  arms  of  rest, 

I  drank  the  light  of  dreamy  eyes  ; 

And  see  !  I  clasp  the  lotus  flower, — 

Star  of  the  East,  pale  lotus  flower. 

0  strange,  beguiling,  mystic  power 

Of  flowers  that  chained  my  being  ;  lo  ! 
Where  dwells  the  spirit  of  the  rose, 
And  the  lost  violets  repose, 

Where  the  pure  souls  of  lilies  go, 

1  float  with  thee,  my  lotus  flower, — 

Down  Niles  of  sleep,  my  lotus  flower. 

18 


MY    LOTUS    FLOWER.  19 

O  saddest,  sweetest,  parting  hour  ! 

Haste  not,  my  summer,  to  the  past ! 
Thy  airs  blew  all  from  angel  lands, 
Love  kept  them  warm  in  rosy  hands, 

And  kissed  them  first  and  last, 
Then  left  me  but  this  lotus  flower, — 
This  fair  and  potent  lotus  flower. 

Dear  summer,  pass  in  pearly  showers, 

In  rainbow  mist  of  tears, 
For  nevermore  will  mignonette 
Be  fraught  with  such  divine  regret, 

In  all  the  coming  years, 
As  dwells  with  thee,  my  lotus  flower, — 
Sad  Egypt's  boon,  the  lotus  flower. 


MY  OLD  HOME. 


It  stands  upon  a  sunny  slope, 

And  fronts  the  beechy  hollow- 
Where  glossy  vines  have  ample  scope 

The  wanton  brook  to  follow  ; 
Witch-hazels  drop  their  magic  wands 

In  search  of  golden  treasure  ; 
And,  lying  in  the  silent  ponds, 

The  trout  find  quiet  pleasure. 

The  oxen  turn  their  patient  eyes 

Upon  me  ;  the  bay  filly 
Neighs  softly  in  her  glad  surprise  ; 

The  tender  lambs  are  chilly, 
And  nestle  in  my  apron  wide  ; 

The  apple  blooms  are  sifting 
20 


MY    OLD    HOME.  21 

In  eddies  on  the  laughing  tide, 
To  yonder  river  drifting. 

The  snowy  dogwood  stars  the  copse, 

Ferns  nod  in  fronded  beauty, 
The  violet  has  modest  hopes 

To  pay  her  fragrant  duty, 
The  arum  darts  a  mottled  tongue 

To  Indian-pipe,  and  vying 
With  every  flower  the  muse  has  sung 

Arbutus  pale  is  sighing. 

Where  poplar  flaunts,  in  changing  vest, 

Upon  my  leafy  pillow, 
I  found  the  child's  enchanted  rest 

Beneath  a  swaying  willow. 
What  mailed  knights  and  minstrels  old 

Defiled  by  ledge  and  fallows  ! 
Or  loomed  against  the  cloud  of  gold 

That  dyed  the  limpid  shallows 


22  MY    OLD    HOME. 

And  lit,  with  fitful,  lurid  glow, 

The  windows  quaint  and  narrow 
Of  visioned  tower  ;  the  stream  below 

Was  broadened  to  the  Yarrow  ; 
And  castled  crag  with  haunted  spring, 

The  primrose  downs  of  Surrey  ; 
White-plumed  courtiers  to  the  king 

In  smiling  homage  hurry. 

What  islands  gemmed  the  dimpled  seas  ! 

What  mountains,  lost  in  azure  ! 
Tall  obelisks  from  stately  trees 

Took  form  and  lofty  measure  ; 
And  cavaliers,  with  snowy  steeds, 

Rode  forth  on  errands  holy, 
While  saints,  with  crowns  of  gentle  deeds, 

Walked  meekly  by  the  lowly. 

Beyond  the  purple,  misty  glen, 
Among  the  ghostly  birches, 


MY    OLD    HOME.  23 

Were  kneeling  pallid  martyr  men, 
Whose  blood  has  fed  the  churches. 

The  wild  rose  and  the  celandine, 
The  iris,  oak,  and  laurel, 

Were  each  memento,  type,  and  sign 
Of  legend,  song,  or  quarrel. 

My  world  was  wide  and  passing  fair, 

The  poet  always  teacher, 
Kind  Nature  for  me  everywhere 

Was  oracle  and  preacher. 
Yet  in  the  farm-house,  large  and  gray, 

The  real  world  of  labor, 
I  trod  the  prosy,  busy  way, 

And  loved  my  boyish  neighbor. 

Oh  !  home  with  plenty  at  the  board, 

With  blazing  hearth,  and  mother 
To  spread  the  luscious  dainties  stored — 

What  child  hath  found  another 


24  MY    OLD    HOME. 

To  knot  a  ribbon,  smooth  a  curl, 

Prepare  a  roast  or  truffle — 
To  sing  and  dance  like  any  girl, 

Group  flowers,  or  flute  a  ruffle  ? 

What  loads  of  belles  and  beaux  from  town 

With  flute  and  horn  and  viol  ! 
What  cake,  with  apples  red  and  brown, 

That  never  knew  denial ! 
And  father,  younger  than  the  boys, 

Our  prince  of  song  and  story — 
Ah  !  well,  the  dear  old-fashioned  joys 

Were  more  to  me  than  glory. 

The  household  graves  lie  all  along 
The  school-house  path  ;  to-morrow 

We  lay,  with  chant  and  robins'  song, 
The  silvered  locks  of  sorrow 

Beside  the  pure  and  patient  wife, 
The  mother  loved  and  loving, — 


MY    OLD    HOME.  25 

Sweet  death,  that  stilleth  human  strife, 
Our  Father's  mercy  proving. 

My  childhood's  home  !  in  other  lands, 

In  other  worlds  will  linger 
Upon  my  soul  the  clasp  of  hands 

Death  touched  with  icy  finger. 
The  early  loved — the  lovely  dead  ! 

God  grant  me  happy  waking, 
To  hear  again  the  words  they  said 

When  heart  was  nigh  to  breaking. 


PANSIES. 

Oh,  purple  hearts  that  drank  the  wine 

Of  royal  sunsets,  where  the  sea 
Laves  golden  sands — the  favored  clime 

Of  flowers— how  tenderly 
I  press  your  velvet  lips  to  mine  ; 

I  hail  the  message  that  you  brought  ; 
Breathe  o'er  my  soul  the  mystic  sign 

Of  Love's  unspoken  thought ! 

How  many  grand  processions  swept 
Above  you,  down  the  western  slope  ? 

How  many  dewy  twilights  kept 
Watch  o'er  his  budding  hope  ? 

And  did  the  whispering  breezes  wait 

To  soft  caress  him  as  they  sped, 
26 


PANSIES.  27 

Spice-laden,  from  the  Golden  Gate, 
To  haunt  your  fairy  bed  ? 

Dear  pansies,  rich  in  royal  dyes 

And  sweet  from  living  near  his  lips, 
Fair  mirrors  of  his  azure  eyes, 

What  can  your  worth  eclipse  ? 
When,  darlings,  this  true  heart  shall  be 

Silent  and  cold,  to  him  repeat 
My  life's  unuttered  mystery — 

That  you  have  found  so  sweet. 


ONE  WHO  DIED. 


She  I  have  cherished  men  say  is  dead  ; 

'T  was  long  ago  that  they  told  me  this, 
Grasses  grow  high  o'er  the  lowly  head, 

Dust  are  the  lips  I  delighted  to  kiss. 
Brown  was  her  hair  as  the  fallow  mould, 

White  her  forehead  as  marble  chill, 
Though  she  left  me  young,  and  I  fast  grow  old, 

She  I  loved — nay,  I  love  her  still. 

She  and  I  played  on  the  frozen  pond, 
Casting  two  shadows  small  and  coy  ; 

Seeking  for  nuts  in  the  woods  beyond, 
Sharing  their  sweetness,  sharing  all  joy. 

Berries  we  found  by  the  ground-bird's  nest, 

Lilies  we  gathered  by  brooklets  wild  ; 
28 


ONE    WHO    DIED.  29 

Ripe  berries,  red  lips,  ye  are  all  at  rest  ! 
I  am  growing  old, — was  I  once  a  child  ? 

She  and  I  played  on  the  old  gray  rock, 

Knelt  in  the  mosses  to  play  at  even, 
Mended  for  either  the  soiled  torn  frock — 

I  am  here  waiting,  she  is  in  heaven. 
Well  I  know  that  she  died  not,  when 

They  put  on  mourning,  I  dark  woe  ; 
For  when  I  sleep  I  'in  a  child  again, 

And  she  and  I  through  the  old  haunts  go. 

She  and  I  talked  when  the  sunset  glow 

Painted  our  faces  with  roses  sweet  ; 
With  clasping  hands,  and  hearts,  I  know, 

Pure  as  the  snow  from  our  flying  feet. 
Talked  we  of  dying,  and  promised  fair, 

That  she  who  lingered  should  not  be  lone  ; 
And  now  in  slumber  she  meets  me  there, 

Young  as  ever,  my  lost — my  own. 


ONE    WHO    DIED. 

She  and  I  slumber  ;  I  awake, 

To  marvel  that  she  will  wake  no  more, 
For  she  but  now  was  alive,  and  spake, 

Calling  me  dear  one,  and  telling  me  o'er 
All  the  glad  tales  of  our  sinless  youth  ; 

Telling  me  tales  of  the  other  side, 
Where  she  has  waited  for  me—'  tis  truth, 

Watching  and  waiting  is  she  who  died. 


OLD    LETTERS. 


There,  speak  in  whispers  ;  fold  me  to  thy  heart, 

Dear  love,  for  I  have  roamed  a  weary,  weary  way  ; 
Bid  my  vague  terrors  with  thy  kiss  depart. 

Oh  !  I  have  been  among  the  dead  to-day  ; 
And  like  a  pilgrim  to  some  martyr's  shrine, 

Awed  with  the  memories  that  crowd  my  brain, 
Fearing  my  voice,  I  woo  the  charm  of  thine  ; 

Tell  me  thou  livest,  lovest  yet  again. 

Not  among  graves,  but  letters,  old  and  dim, 
Yellow  and  precious,  have  I  touched  the  past, 

Reverent  and  prayerful  as  we  chant  a  hymn 

Among  the  aisles  where  saints  their  shadows  cast  •, 

Reading  dear  names  on  faded  leaf  that  here 
Was  worn  with  foldings  tremulous  and  fond, 


32  OLD    LETTERS. 

There  drowned  in  plashing  of  a  tender  tear, 

Or  with  death's  tremble  pointing  "  the  beyond." 

And,  Love,  there  came  a  flutter  of  white  wings — 

A  stir  of  snowy  robes  from  out  the  deep 
Of  utter  silence,  as  I  read  the  things 

I  smiled  to  trace  before  I  learned  to  weep  ; 
And  hands,  whose  clasp  was  magic  long  ago, 

Came  soft  before  me  till  I  yearned  to  press 
Mad  kisses  on  their  whiteness — then  the  woe, 

The  sting  of  death,  the  chill  of  nothingness  ! 

One  was  afar,  where  golden  sands  made  dim 

The  shining  steps  of  the  poor  trickster,  Time  ; 
And  one  was  lost — Ah  !  bitter  grief  for  him 

Who   wrecked   his   manhood    in   the   depths   of 

crime  ! 
Another,  beautiful  as  morning's  beam 

Flushing  the  orient,  laid  meekly  down 
Among  the  daisies,  dreaming  love's  glad  dream  ; 

And  one  sweet  saint  now  wears  a  starry  crown. 


OLD    LETTERS.  33 

And  then  there  stole  delicious  odors  still 

From  out  those  relics  of  the  charmed  past, 
Sighs  from  the  lips  omnipotent  to  will 

And  win  rich  tribute  to  the  very  last  ; 
But  death,  or  change,  had  been  among  my  flowers, 

And  all  their  bloom  had  faded,  so  that  I 
Yield  my  sad  thoughts  to  the  compelling  powers 

Of  the  bright  soul  I  worship  till  I  die. 
Nay,  never  doubt  me,  for,  by  love's  divine 
And  tearful  past,  I  know  my  future  thine. 


HOME-LIGHT. 


When  I  came  with  a  sense  of  ecstatic  delight, 
Into  my  home  from  the  world  and  the  night, 
Into  its  quiet,  love's  burthens  to  bear— 
The  incense  of  worship  pervading  its  air,— 
The  sweet  dews  of  welcome  baptized  my  sad  lips, 
As  a  bird  in  the  fountain  the  weary  wing  dips. 
The  soul  like  a  monarch  embracing  its  throne 
Would  bask  in  content  on  the  bosom  of  home. 

Little  hands  of  caressing,  eyes  dusky  and  clear, 
That  mirrored  the  thoughts  unacquainted  with  fear  ; 
Budding  roses,  red  lips,  lifted  eagerly  up, — 
How  I  drained  the  rich  wine  of  that  God-given  cup  ! 
Tired  fingers  enclasped  by  the  ringlets  of  gold, 
That  shone  with  the  gems  never  miser  has  told. 
Ah,  shut  out  the  world,  with  its  hearts  cold  and  sere  ! 

For  the  world  of  calm  peace  that  awaited  me  here. 
34 


HOME-LIGHT.  35 

What  balm  to  the  spirit !  what  respite  from  pain  ! 
Like  the  soft  summer  wind  in  the  hush  of  the  rain  ; 
Was  silence  e'er  charmed  to  such  tender  surprise 
By  the  voice  of  enchantress — the  moonlight  that  lies 
On  my  books  by  the  window,  the  hammock,  and 

chair  ? 

Were  the  stars  e'er  so  near  and  the  flowers  so  fair  ? 
What  repast  so  delicious,  so  dainty  ?  its  grace 
Was  born  of  her  presence  and  seen  in  her  face. 

O  mothers  who  kneel  by  your  darlings  to-night, 
Fair  angels  of  home  in  their  raiment  of  white, 
Have  pitying  thoughts  for  this  mother  bereft, 
And  pray  for  the  home  that  an  angel  has  left ! 
Will  she  come  when  the  roses  have  burgeoned  to 

flame? 
Will  she  sing  the  old  songs  ?     Will  she  smile  just 

the  same  ? 

God  help  us  poor  women  !  in  palace  or  cot, 
The  light  has  gone  out  where  the  children  are  not. 


THANKSGIVING  PHANTOMS. 


Thanksgiving  in  the  great  house  all  too  still, 
With  painful  order,  haunted,  too,  you  know  ; 

Over  the  threshold  and  the  window-sill 
Are  lovely  phantoms  flitting  to  and  fro. 

They  touch  the  dear  old  instrument  with  art 
That  never  fails  to  stir  the  fount  of  tears, 

To  open  wide  the  chambers  of  the  heart, 
And  summon  back  the  sweet  departed  years. 

Dead  roses  bloom,  lost  birds  take  up  again 

Their  music  life.     I  hear  the  hum  of  bees, 
Gay  childish  laughter,  talk  of  merry  men, 

The  summer  rain  slow  dropping  from  the  trees. 
36 


THANKSGIVING    PHANTOMS.  37 

Often  they  sing,  this  shadow  girl  and  boy  ! 

Sing  the  old  ballads,  "  Bonnie  Banks  of  Ayr," 
Or  "  Annie  Laurie,"  with  a  simple  joy 

Of  youth  and  love  o'ermastering  despair. 

Sing  on  and  on,  their  beautiful  soft  eyes 
Wear  never  meaning  that  is  cold  or  strange. 

Familiar  faces  give  us  no  surprise  ! 

Always  before  me,  wherefore  any  change  ? 

In  the  same  world,  dear  Lord  !  oh  many  a  year 
Our  darlings  live  to  just  and  noble  aims  ! 

Their  country  ours,  strangers  to  want  or  fear  ! 
Brave  toilers,  free  from  selfish  evil  stains  ! 

Thanksgiving  ?     Yes,  that  I  can  garner  up 
The  precious  harvest  of  glad  motherhood. 

So  full  of  blessing,  this  our  Father's  cup 
O'erflows  with  tears — for  "  it  is  very  good." 


DEATH    AND   ROSES. 


When  I  am  dead,  strew  roses  o'er  me,  Sweet — 
Great  bleeding  hearts,  roses  from  head  to  feet  ; 
Buds  without  stint,  and  leaves  as  bright  and  cool 
As  ferns  that  nod  by  lily-haunted  pool ; 
And  let  me  hold  them  in  these  arms,  my  Own, 
So  shall  I  never  be  again — alone. 

How  have  I  loved  them  ?     All  the  happy  days 
I  walked  with  life  the  old  and  pleasant  ways  ; 
Loved  them  so  well  I  gave  the  best  to  thee. 
These,  my  true  loves,  broke  never  faith  with  me  ; 
Nay,  in  their  folds  I  often  found  the  tear 
I  shed  by  night,  a  morning  dew-drop  clear. 

I  want  them  all — my  roses  of  Lorraine, 

The  wild  sweetbrier  that  blossomed  in  the  lane, 

38 


DEATH    AND    ROSES.  39 

My  Bengal  beauties,  moss-rose,  pink  and  white — 

With  all  their  glory  it  will  not  be  night. 

Let  lily-bells  alone  for  me  be  tolled, 

And  drape  the  sod  with  trailing  Cloth  of  Gold. 

O  peerless  darlings  of  the  sun  and  rain  ! 
When  did  I  seek  your  velvet  lips  in  vain  ? 
Your  thorns  have  left  no  scar  upon  my  heart. 
My  first,  last  breath  still  yours,  a  very  part 
Of  all  my  being ;  go  with  me  where  blows 
On  Death's  white  bosom  Life's  immortal  Rose  ! 


CHRISTMAS  TRYST. 


Whenever  the  Christmas-tide  comes  in, 

Come  its  phantom  ships  of  the  long  ago, 
With  furled  sails  that  are  white  and  thin 

As  diamond  dust  of  the  wind-swept  snow  ; 
And  the  solemn  joy  of  the  voyagers  pale, 

The  silent  ones  with  the  folded  hands, 
Who  one  by  one  in  the  dark  set  sail 

For  the  isles  of  the  unknown  Fatherlands. 

If  they  come  back  from  the  golden  strand 
That  sunset  floods  with  the  opal's  glow, — 

Or  drift  from  the  Pleiads'  lovely  band, 
Or  the  Milky  Way,  shall  we  ever  know  ? 

If  floating  up  from  the  crystal  caves 

Where  the  spoils  are  strewn  of  every  clime, 
40 


CHRISTMAS    TRYST.  '    41 

Or  gliding  forth  from  the  mossy  graves 
To  walk  once  more  in  the  light  of  time  ? 

I  always  hope  that  a  signal  sigh 

May  break  the  hush  of  my  yearnings  fond, 
That  the  lost  delight  of  a  loving  eye 

May  pierce  the  mist  of  the  dim  beyond  ; 
For  who  may  tell  if  our  prayers  are  heard  ? 

And  who  can  feel  that  our  love  is  vain  ? 
That  the  lost  deny  us  a  little  word, 

A  tender  touch  for  our  wasting  pain  ? 

And  thus  the  lights  of  the  home  burn  low  ; 

I  move  with  quiet  expectant  tread 
From  hearth  to  window,  as  mourners  go 

To  crown  with  blossoms  the  sacred  dead  ; 
With  here  the  ivy,  and  there  a  rose, 

White  chrysanthemum,  holly  too  ; 
What  if  the  fingers  sweet  unclose  ? 

That  is  for  mother  and  this  for  you. 


42  CHRISTMAS    TRYST. 

Hyacinths  for  the  old  and  sad, 

Violets  for  the  young  and  gay, 
Returning  home  they  will  all  be  glad 

To  find  it  just  as  they  went  away. 
Surely,  our  love  ever  keeps  ajar 

The  inner  door  of  the  heart  for  those 
Who  come  from  the  unseen  near  or  far, 

And  leave  no  trace  on  the  Christmas  snows. 

Baby's  chair  where  the  dimpled  feet 

Pressed  the  folds  of  his  grandma's  dress, 
In  the  happy  place  where  the  children  meet — 

He  and  she — do  they  love  the  less  ? 
Nay,  for  our  human  ways  are  best, 

7  should  grieve  if  I  came  too  late — 
An  unexpected,  unwelcome  guest — 

To  my  own,  but  "  to  stand  without  and  wait." 

All  that  my  Father  has  given  to  me 
Is  mine  in  the  might  of  unfailing  trust 


CHRISTMAS    TRYST.  43 

To  have  and  to  hold  in  eternal  fee  ; 

If  I  hold  to  the  bond,  it  is  only  just 
Giving  love  for  love,  and  I  keep  the  tryst 

With  the  absent  ones,  at  the  Christmas-tide, 
As  /  shall  turn  to  the  lips  I  kissed, 

When  I  recross  from  the  other  side. 


SILENT  MOTHERS. 

I  wonder,  child,  if  when  you  cry 
To  me,  in  such  sore  agony 
As  I  moaned  "  Mother  !  "  yesterday, 
I  shall  not  find  some  way,  some  way, 
To  comfort  you,  my  little  May  . 

If,  when  you  kiss  my  silent  lips 
They  will  not  pass  from  death's  eclipse 
To  whisper  of  the  peace,  you  know, 
That  waits  where  tired  mothers  go — 
Ay,  kiss  and  bless  you  soft  and  low. 

If  my  poor  children's  grief  will  fail 
To  stir  the  white  and  frosty  veil 

That  hides  my  secret  from  their  eyes, 
44 


SILENT    MOTHERS.  45 

Shall  I  not  turn  from  Paradise, 
To  still  the  tempest  of  their  sighs  ? 

Oh,  patient  hands,  that  toil  to  keep 
The  wolf  at  bay  while  children  sleep, 
That  smooth  each  flossy  tangled  tress, 
And  thrill  with  mother  happiness  ! 
Have  they  not  soon  the  power  to  bless  ? 

I  think  the  sting  of  death  must  be 
Resigning  love's  sweet  mastery  ; 
To  bid  our  little  ones  "  Good-night," 
To  turn  from  home  and  its  delight, — 
Even  with  all  of  heaven  in  sight. 


LOST  AND  FOUND. 


O  my  lost  bird,  that  sang  to  me  all  day  ! 

Wee  bird,  that  found   its  voice  within  my  breast, 
Trying  its  pretty  wings,  has  flown  away, 

Speeding  to  palace  gardens  of  the  West. — 
There,  in  a  lovely  cage,  with  dainty  fare, 

Her  bright  head  flashing  'mid  the  glossy  leaves, 
With  organ  trembles,  blended  song  and  prayer, 

The  old  enchantment  evermore  she  weaves. 

When  morning  sunshine  dances  on  the  nest 
(White,  downy  nest,  deserted),  mute  I  glide — 

My  yearning  kisses  on  that  shrine  are  prest, 
And  tears  are  welling  in  resistless  tide. 

O  new-found  nest  !     O  sunny  head  that  lies 

Surely  beneath  an  angel's  brooding  wing  ! 
46 


LOST    AND    FOUND.  47 

Sings  she,  in  dreams,  of  weary-waiting  eyes  ? 
And  blind  to  half  the  glory  of  the  spring  ! 

If  God  cares  aught  for  motherhood,  I  know, 

When  Summer  lies  in  Autumn's  warm  embrace, — 
Her  dying  roses  with  his  lips  aglow, — 

That  I  shall  look  upon  my  darling's  face  ; 
Note  the  first  flutter  of  the  Song  astir 

In  her  white  throat;  and,  thrilling  in  sweet  pain, 
Find  recompense  for  every  grief  in  her, 

And  life's  lost  music  live  for  me  again. 


When  the  first  timid  leaf,  with  many  sighs,  grew  pale, 

And  shuddering,  sought  the  ivied  arbor  floor  ; 
When  the  blue  haze,  like  misty  bridal  veil, 

Draped  the  far  hills  and  kissed  the  pebbly  shore; 
When  all  my  flowers  held  carnival,  and  flung 

Their  perfumed  banners  to  the  August  air, 
My  long-lost  starling,  'neath  the  lattice,  sung 

Of  spring-time  glory — sung  to  death  grim  care. 


MY    GUESTS. 


Gay  trumpeters,  my  morning-glories,  haste  ! 

Crowd  the  low  lattice  where  my  darling  lies  ! 
The  braided  gold  of  tresses  to  her  waist, 

And  peaceful  slumber  veiling  her  sweet  eyes. 

How  glows  the  wedding  ring  upon  her  hand  J 
A  tender  dream  her  lovely  lips  disclose  ! 

And  lo  !  a  message  from  the  King's  fair  land, — 
Upon  her  breast  she  wears  a  sleeping  rose. 

Oh  !  mystery  and  marvel  !     Is  it  life 

That  stirs  the  folds  of  this  transparent  veil  ? 
Divinest  clay  !     Awake,  thou  glad  young  wife  ! 

Welcome  and  joy  !  rny  baby  mother  !  hail  ! 

48 


MY    GUESTS.  49 

What  heavenly  gift  is  this  thou  bearest  me  ? 

A  perfect  being — and  so  pure,  I  stand 
Like  Mary,  bowed  in  soft  expectancy 

And  trembling  wait  the  angel's  high  command. 

She  moves,  she  wakes  !  a  new  and  holy  light 

Strikes   through   my  heart  from  her  shy,  happy 
gaze,— 

The  mother-love  that  knows  no  change  or  blight, 
And  fadeth  not  through  all  the  world's  dark  ways. 

And  then,  with  rev'rent  touch,  as  if  she  stirred 
A  dreaming  cherub  from  its  sacred  place, 

She  lifted  up  the  little  drowsy  bird 

And  pressed  her  fondly  to  my  white  wet  face, — 

Between  her  kisses  and  great  tears  that  said 

More  than  all  words  : — "Thy  namesake,  mother 
mine," 

And  stroked  her  baby's  pretty  downy  head 
Like  mother-bird  with  ev'ry  winsome  sign. 


50  MY    GUESTS. 

Who  said  "  a  woman  has  outlived  her  best 
When  roses  fade  and  silver  threads  appear  "  ? 

Who  sang  her  feet  have  journeyed  to  the  West, 
When  second  growth  of  blossoms  cluster  near? 

Hush  !  baby  dialect !  the  mother-tongue  ! 

Set  to  old  music — (sweeter  for  the  breaks); 
So  young  these  two — the  dear  old  world  is  young, 

And  sorrow  wears  a  garland  for  their  sakes. 

Now,  like  the  flowers  that  open  to  the  morn, 
My  life  takes  on  renewed  and  royal  lease  ; 

My  sun  stands  still  at  summer's  golden  noon, 
For  God  has  sent  his  messenger  of  peace. 


FORBIDDEN  FRUIT. 


I 
Like  a  rose-leaf  encircled,  lying  lightly  adrift  in  the 

daisies, 
The  year-old  pet  lies  famished,  denied  its  delicious 

white  nectar. 
The  fountain  is  troubled  ;  alas !  the  angel  of  health 

has  departed. 
Poor  little  nursling  !     She  sleeps  like  a  lamb  by  its 

mother  deserted  ; 
Tears  bead  the  silk  lashes,  like  dew  on  the  fringe  of 

the  gentian  ; 
Her  breathing  is  fitful  with  sighs,  yet  she  dreams  of 

the  fountain  forbidden, 
The  warm  pearly  stream  that  she  drained  in  her 

sleepy  abandon  ; 


52  FORBIDDEN    FRUIT. 

Her  little  pink  toes  half  apart  in  her  blissful  con 
tentment, 

Like  a  rose  in  soft  ermine,  the  tiny  glad  hand  of  the 

cherub  ; 
And  questioning,  smiling,  the  eyes  of  the  innocent 

creature, 
Clear  wells  that  reflected  the  peace  of  the  beautiful 

mother. 
Fair  as  a  shell  lay  the  dimpled  twin  palm,  in  the 

gentle 
Caressing  white  ringers   that  thrilled  with  ecstatic 

possession 
With  yielding  her  life  to  the  helpless  young  life  of 

another. 

Oh  !  mothers  who  sit  in  your  vestments  of  lustrous 

rich  fabrics, 
Proud  in  your  art  to  enchant,  with  music  and  science 

alluring, 


FORBIDDEN    FRUIT.  53 

Who  know  not  the  natural  beneficent  joy  of  your 

sisters — 
See  !  envy  this  mother,  who  cries  in  her  anguish  : 

"  Forgive  me, 
My  birdie,  thrust  out  of  thy  nest,  the  sweet  bliss  of 

thy  Eden. 
God   help    us    poor   mothers  !    how    brief   is    the 

season  of  gladness, 
The   fleeting   delight   of    sustaining  the    weakling 

dependent ; 
How  welcome  were  hunger's  fierce  torture,  if  only 

my  baby  were  nourished  !  " 


A  VALENTINE. 


TO    MY    GRANDDAUGHTER. 

A  valentine  true  will  I  send  to  my  lady, 

My  lady  so  small  and  my  lady  so  young ; 
In  her  smiles  and  her  dimples  my  poor  heart  is 

giddy, 

As   the   honey-bee   reels   where    the   sweetbrier 
clung. 


O  baby,  you  came  with  the  thrushes  and  linnets, 
The  roses  and  lilies  and  strawberries  red  ; 

You  shortened  the  days  into  hours  and  minutes, 
With  the  measure  of  love  just  as  high  as  your 

head. 

54 


A    VALENTINE.  55 

Your  hair  was  the  down  of  the  thistle  that  drifted 
Above  the  white  daisies  ;  the  blue  of  your  eyes 

Had  stolen  the  tints  of  the  violets  lifted — 

Too  pure  for  the  earth,   and  too  meek  for  the 
skies. 

I  brought  velvet  rose  leaves  and  dew-sprinkled 
clover 

To  match  the  soft  lips,  the  fair  cheeks  of  this  elf  ; 
I  rifled  the  forest,  searched  garden  and  cover, 

But  never  a  blossom  like  baby  herself. 

How  danced  the  sweet  tassels  of  locust  above  her 
How  piped  every  singer  in  trellis  and  tree  ! 

Winds,  waves,  and  the  sunbeams  ran  riot  to  love 

her — 
My  bluebell  that  swung  in  the  grapevine  with  me. 

The  ivy  caressed  and  the  clematis  crowned  her  ; 
Her  little  pink  palms  made  the  goldfishes  dart 


A    VALENTINE. 


Like   flashes    of   light,   and    the   butterflies   round 

her 
Seemed  only  of  baby's  bright  beauty  a  part. 

Not  angel  or  fairy,  enchantingly  human  ; 

Fair  graft  that  retains  all  the  best  of  our  race  ! 
If  a  rose  were  a  bud,  then  were  baby  a  woman, 

And  the  peace  of  the  angels  illumines  her  face. 

Through  the  mist  of  my  tears  shine  her  sweet,  sunny 
graces  ; 

Little  mother,  my  valentine,  sing  to  her  low  ; 
God's  smile  will  make  glad  all  the  beautiful  places 

Wherever  the  feet  of  my  darling  shall  go. 


THANKSGIVING    EVE. 


The  wild  winds  sport  with  the  snowflakes  falling 
Over  my  graves,  and  the  first  hoar  frost, 

Creeping  like  death  on  the  panes,  recalling 
All  that  the  year  and  my  heart  have  lost. 

Is  it  winter  there  that  you  come  to-night,  love  ? — 
Press  to  my  side  from  the  starbeams  cold 

In  the   wide  old  hall,    where  the  red  warm  light, 

love, 
Lies  like  a  rose  in  the  curtain's  fold  ? 

Is  there  thanksgiving,  with  flowers  and  chanting 

In  our  Father's  house,  where  ye  all  have  place  ? 
It  is  like  you,  dear,  if  but  one  stands  wanting, 

To  give  of  your  best  with  a  lover's  grace. 

57 


58  THANKSGIVING    EVE. 

I  marvel  not  that  our  world's  sweet  fashion 
Of  love  and  pity  should  draw  you,  dear  ; 

Could  they  see  His  face,  had  they  lost  compassion 
For  the  souls  that  faint  with  their  hunger  here  ? 

Only  a  year  !  and  my  life's  calm  gloaming 
Darkens  to  murk.     Is  it  morn  with  thee  ? 

From  sun  to  star,  art  thou  free  in  roaming — 
To  bide  with  angels,  or  come  to  me  ? 

Have  you  found  the  key  to  the  secrets  olden, 
That  Time  and  Death  in  their  miser  greed 

Denied  to  us  in  our  love-time  golden  ? — 
Ah  !  yours  the  blessing  and  mine  the  need. 

The  moon  glides  forth  and  the  Pleiades  paling, 

Nigh  is  morning — I  feel  the  beat 
Of  the  mystic  oars — he  is  softly  sailing 

The  waves  of  silence  to  join  the  fleet. 


THANKSGIVING    EVE.  59 

If  their  voyage  is  long,  if  they  touch  in  passing 
The  rings  of  Saturn,  or  round  the  isles 

Of  the  pearly  sea,  never  world  surpassing 

The  earth  they  left  where  the  home-light  smiles. 

And  my  tears  that  channel  the  frosted  casement 

Are  drops  of  balm,  for  at  last  I  see, 
Through  loss  and  anguish  or  sad  abasement.. 

We  cannot  drift  from  our  own  and  Thee. 


FAMISHED. 

If  only  mothers  knew,  she  said, 
How  hungry  children  are  for  love, 

Above  each  little  virgin  bed 

A  mother's  lips  would  surely  prove 

How  sweet  are  kisses  that  are  given 

Between  a  rosy  mouth  and  heaven. 

If  only  my  mamma  would  kneel, 
As  your  dear  mother,  every  night, 

Beside  her  little  girl,  to  feel 

If  all  the  wraps  are  folded  tight, 

And  hold  my  hands,  her  elbow  fair 

Between  my  cheek  and  her  soft  hair, — 
60 


FAMISHED.  6 1 

And  looking  in  my  dreaming  eyes 
As  if  she  saw  some  loving  thing, 

And  smiling  in  such  fond  surprise 
On  all  my  hopes  of  life,  that  spring 

Like  flowers  beneath  her  tender  gaze, — 

I  could  not  stray  in  evil  ways. 

I  would  not  wound  the  gentle  breast 
That  held  me  warm  within  its  fold  ; 

My  mother's  love  would  still  be  best, 
However  sad,  or  plain,  or  old  : 

And  even  though  the  world  forsake, 

I  'd  love  her  for  her  love's  dear  sake. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


I  have  garnished  the  house  for  Christmas, 

With  its  holly  and  mistletoe  ; 
The  tables  are  piled  with  dainties, 

And  I  sit  by  the  hearth's  red  glow, 
Watching  my  children's  faces 

From  panel  and  vase  and  frame, 
In  babyhood,  youth,  and  marriage, 

With  never  a  thought  of  blame. 

Gone  !  one  in  a  far-off  city 
Will  dream  of  his  home  to-night ; 

And  one  in  her  bridal  chamber 
Caresses  my  roses  white  ; 

And  one  in  "  the  better  country," 

Fairest  and  first,  I  know 
63 


CHRISTMAS   EVE.  63 

Is  "  about  the  Father's  business,"— 
Yet  their  dear  forms  come  and  go. 

I  have  knelt  by  the  love-worn  cradle — 

Aye,  wept  by  the  empty  nest 
Of  my  birds  flown  high  as  heaven, 

Or  lost  in  the  great,  glad  West. 
And  I  string  on  a  girl's  bright  ribbon 

(Blue  as  my  darling's  eyes) 
Some  relics  a  mother  treasures 

Of  her  by-gone  paradise. 

Pink  mite  of  a  baby  stocking, 

The  little  feet,  tired  to  death 
At  the  end  of  a  day's  sweet  journey, 

(Finding  the  angel's  path,) 
Return  nevermore  to  mamma, 

They  keep  in  the  walks  of  light, 
And  I  know  it  is  well  with  the  baby, 

While  I  pray  for  the  rest  to-night. 


04  CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

Next,  the  glove  of  a  college  stripling  ; 

Then  slipper  as  white  and  small 
As  the  foot  of  the  blushing  fairy 

I  dressed  for  her  birth-night  ball. 
She  is  standing  there  still  in  the  moonlight. 

Love's  dawn  in  her  smile's  sweet  stress, 
And  again  in  my  heart  the  anguish 

Of  the  loss  I  would  not  confess. 

Will  my  boy  come  not  with  the  morning, 

His  proud  eyes  soft  with  tears  ? 
And  his  "  Mamma,  you  're  my  Christmas  !  " 

Will  they  never  come  back — the  years 
Of  innocent  mirth  and  story 

Those  young  hearts  held  in  trust  ? 
O  flowers  of  their  May-time  beauty, 

Are  ye  nothing  but  golden  dust  ? 


ESTRANGED. 


I  marvel,  as  I  trace  the  white  and  arid  sands 
Of  our  divided  ways,  if,  in  my  eager  quest, 
Of  truth  and  beauty,  happiness — the  best — 

Has  come  to  me.     If  lingering  touch  of  hands 

Loses  the  old-time  thrill  in  foreign  lands, 
If  the  old  pain  has  died  from  out  thy  breast, 
Nor  bars  the  door  to  every  gracious  guest 

Who  comes  as  bearer  of  the  king's  commands. 

And  oft  I  marvel,  should  they  go  to  thee 

Saying  :  "  Thy  sometime  friend  hath  journeyed 

far, 
Found  her  ideals  in  some  lovely  star  !  " 

If  then,  e'en  then,  the  tender  floods  would  rise, 

And  drown  the  fiery  scorn,  lost  love  !  for  me, — 

The  sad  farewell  of  thy  reproachful  eyes. 
65 


THE  LIGHTS  OF  LYNN. 


O  gentle  friend  !  when  late  I  sped 

By  Hudson's  broad  and  classic  breast 
And  in  its  calm,  translucent  bed 

Beheld  the  burnished,  ruby  west, 
Drank  purest  life  from  purpling  hills, 

And  music  from  the  piney  shore  ; 
Sang  with  the  crystal,  foaming  rills, — 

Again  with  thee  I  sat  once  more 
Where  Ocean,  like  a  wearied  king, 

With  sunset  crown  o'er  dusky  land, 
Slept  in  the  night's  gold  blossoming 

Upon  the  smooth  and  gleaming  sand  ; 

And  read  the  rocky  wonders  piled 

Upon  Nahant's  historic  coast, 
66 


THE    LIGHTS    OF    LYNN.  67 

With  murmured  legends,  strange  and  wild, 
Of  shipwreck  and  of  lovers  lost, 

Until  I  seemed  to  drift  away 

O'er  Fancy's  amber,  dreamy  sea — 

Beyond  the  light-house  and  the  bay- 
Where  tears  and  partings  may  not  be. 

Recalled  to  earth  by  distant  chime, 
Again  we  seek  the  city's  din, 

Regretful  of  that  scene  sublime, 
We  hail  the  lovely  lights  of  Lynn. 

The  lovely  lights  of  sea-girt  Lynn, 

While  floating  to  that  unknown  sea  ! 
Becalmed  to  rest,  or  pained  by  sin, 

Or  moved  by  heavenly  harmony  ; 
'Mid  all  of  beauty,  aye,  of  love  ! 

Proud  visions  of  earth's  royal  souls  ! 
If  pleadingly  I  look  above, 

Or  where  life's  maddening  torrent  rolls — 


68  THE    LIGHTS    OF    LYNN. 

Still,  like  a  star  that  beams  to  win, 
That  haunting  picture  fair  I  see, 

Where,  guided  by  the  lights  of  Lynn, 
I  drank  the  twilight  hour  with  thee. 


THE  CHILD    AND    THE    SOLDIER. 


It  was  a  wounded  soldier,  and  he  sat 

With  his  starved  face  averted  from  the  eyes 

Scanning  his  features  in  the  crowded  car, — 

As  if  his  grimed  and  tattered  garb,  dear  Heaven  ! 

Were  out  of  keeping  with  the  silken  robes 

Of  the  excursionists  ; — trying  to  smile 

When  happy  children  talked  of  fruit  and  song. 

Hunger  and  pain  had  hollowed  the  pale  cheek, 

And  from  the  midnight  of  his  mournful  eyes 

A  world  of  anguish  strove  with  manly  pride  ; 

Trembling,  the  fingers  of  his  one  poor  arm 

Clutched  at  the  Enfield  rifle  at  his  side 

As  if  that  friend  a  history  could  tell 

To  prove  his  title  to  his  country's  love. 
69 


70  THE    CHILD    AND    THE    SOLDIER. 

Sudden  there  sprang  a  child  before  his  face  ; 
A  winsome  baby  girl,  a  very  bird 
Of  song  and  plumage,  gay  as  May-day  flowers, 
So  beautiful  !     The  soldier  silent  gazed 
Till  the  big  tears  shut  out  the  vision  bright. 
She  held  three  roses  in  her  dimpled  hand — 
Three  deep  red  roses,  fresh  as  dewy  lips, 
That  trembled  softly,  while  a  great  round  tear 
Coursed  its  sweet  way  adown  her  velvet  cheek. 
"  Soldier  :  take  Ella's  roses, — please  to  take  ! 
Ella  loves  soldiers.     Mamma,  give  him  wine 
And  fruit  and  bread  !     Mamma  !  " — 

Aery, 

A  low,  quick  cry,  wrung  from  a  brave  man's  heart, 
And  the  sick  soldier,  sobbing,  murmured  "  Mine  ! 
My  child,  my  angel  !     Oh,  my  country  held 
In  grateful  trust  to  crown  my  sad  return  ! 
God  bless  the  land  that  feeds  her  soldiers'  babes, 
The  while  he  suffers  in  a  rebel  cell  ! 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    SOLDIER.  71 

A  hundred  arms  were  not  too  much  to  give 
For  one  such  hour  of  rapture  !  " 

Ah,  in  vain 

The  allied  forces  of  earth's  tyrannies 
To  crush  a  land  where  scenes  like  these  light  up 
The  awful  night  of  sorrow-breathing  war. 
While  the  Republic  takes  her  little  ones 
In  the  strong  arms  of  fond  maternal  love, 
Trains  the  quick  mind  in  wisdom's  blessed  ways, 
She  '11  never  want  for  heroes  to  make  good 
Her  place  among  the  nations. 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  HEART. 

The  hot  sun  shone  on  the  yellow  ledge, 
Leaving  of  green  grass  scarce  a  trace, 

Scorching  in  wrinkles  the  fern  and  sedge, 
But  the  well  at  its  foot  hid  its  gleaming  face. 

Cold  and  pure  and  far  down  it  lay  ; 

Thirsty  lips  o'er  its  freshness  faint 
Turned  in  bitter  reproach  away, 

Weary  sinner  and  dying  saint. 

Hurled  o'er  the  ledge  by  a  giant's  strength, 

A  grim,  gray  boulder  dropping  down, 
The  waters  spring  to  the  brim  at  length, 

And  lo  !  with  beauty  the  leaflets  crown. 
72 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  HEART.          73 

Heavy  it  lay  in  the  silent  well, 

As  sorrow  lies  in  a  grieving  breast  ; 

But  ever  after,  for  cup  and  bell 
Flowed  the  rivulet,  cool  and  blest. 

The  sun  and  stars  in  a  tender  sheen 
Gilded  its  beauty  by  day  and  night, 

And  'round  its  margin  in  glowing  green 
Fringes  of  mosses  with  flowers  unite. 

Ah  me  !  The  heart  is  a  well-spring  fair 
Of  purest  waters,  but  buried  still  ; 

God  sendeth  sorrow  and  loving  care, 
And  the  angel  sings  like  a  laughing  rill. 


THE  ETERNAL  PLAN. 


When  the  Eternal  Goodness  said 

"  Let  man  exist  !  "  the  plan  was  ripe  ; 
He  was  the  fair,  the  lordly  type 

Immortal — living,  dying,  dead. 

We  cannot  die  ;  we  live  in  all 

The  ages  past  or  yet  to  be  ; 

In  lives  beyond  the  utmost  sea, 
In  leaves  that  have  their  time  to  fall. 

We  are  of  earth,  we  clasp  the  stars ; 
Sing  with  the  birds  ;  our  pulses  beat 
In  time  with  every  rhythm  sweet 

Of  hearts  and  waves, — no  discord  jars. 
74 


THE    ETERNAL    PLAN. 

We  live  in  flowers,  in  mighty  thoughts  ; 

We  have  a  part  in  every  deed 

• 
Noble  and  true  ;  despite  of  creed 

Of  heavenly  pattern  we  are  wrought. 

For  God  who  loves  and  ever  lives 
Pervades  all  being  ;  we  in  Him 
Exist  for  aye, — if  seraphim 

Or  mortal  growth  to  us  He  gives. 

Else  could  we  feel  our  brother's  wrong 
In  lands  as  far  as  ship  can  glide  ? 
Or  thrill  with  rapture  by  the  side 

Of  every  nature  pure  and  strong  ? 

O  wondrous  being  !  heir  to  all 

Our  Father's  measureless  domain  ! 
God-centred  !— if  in  bitter  pain, 

Or  throned  in  glory's  banquet-hall ! 


THE  MUSIC  OF  LABOR. 


'Mid  click  of  looms  and  groaning  of  wheels, 

Buzz  of  spindles,  turning  of  reels, 

Cry  of  crank,  moaning  of  shaft, 

Carding  and  picking,  and  various  craft, 

Roar  of  water  and  rush  of  steam, 

In  our  factory  window  I  sit  and  dream. 


Below  me  the  river,  in  leap  and  dash, 
Foams  in  the  sunshine's  golden  flash, 
Hurrying  on  from  the  gray  old  mill, 
Clasping  the  island,  kissing  the  hill, 
Laughing  in  rapids  rippling  fair, 

Taking  soft  pictures  here  and  there. 
76 


THE    MUSIC    OF    LABOR.  77 

Amber  and  crimson,  dun  and  brown, 
Ha  !  how  the  bright  leaves  shimmer  down  ; 
Clouds  of  silver,  coming  to  sleep 
On  the  breast  of  the  river,  calm  and  deep  ; 
O  beautiful  autumn  !  symbol  of  life  ! 
After  its  summer  of  toil  and  strife 
Cometh  the  glory  of  love  and  truth, 
Ripened  knowledge  and  second  youth. 

Even  here,  in  the  temple  of  toil, 
Thought  may  garner  her  precious  spoil  ; 
Brain  of  genius,  by  day  and  night, 
Wrought  in  harness  of  steel  as  bright 
As  helmet  and  cuirass,  nobler  far, 
Heroes  of  labor's  bloodless  war  ! 
Groove  and  pulley  and  shaft  give  out 
Praise  as  lofty  as  martial  shout  ; 
Science  and  labor,  hand-in-hand, 
Clothe  the  naked  and  bless  the  land. 


78  THE    MUSIC    OF    LABOR. 

Wondrous  triumph  of  patient  thought, 
Honor  the  minds  that  have  wisely  wrought ! 
Honor  the  maiden,  honor  the  man, 
True  to  our  Father's  righteous  plan  ! 
Idler  of  fashion,  slave  of  pride, 
Poor  in  thy  satins,  this  maid  beside  ! 
With  hair  of  sunbeams  parted  above 
Brow  of  purity,  eyes  of  love, 
Hand  to  labor,  and  eyes  to  trace 
Poet  teachings  of  wit  and  grace, 
Weaving,  perchance,  with  her  goodly  tweed 
Image  of  beauty  and  noble  deed  ; 
Weaving  mayhap,  in  her  fresh  young  life, 
Flowers  to  crown  her,  woman  and  wife  ! 
Music  of  labor,  glory  of  toil ! 
Beautiful  world  !     When  the  cold  recoil 
Of  selfish  passions  and  idle  aims 
Comes  to  the  soul  with  angry  claims, 
Turn  to  nature  for  peace,  and  then 
Honor  thy  God  in  thy  fellow-men. 


WANTED,  MEN. 


The  times  are  mad  with  a  fever  taint 

In  the  very  heart  of  the  people  ; 
Not  bereft  of  priest,  or  abridged  of  saint, 

Or  beggared  of  bell  and  steeple  ; 
Glutted  the  market  with  tract  and  hymn, 

Tithes  and  missions  and  psalters  ; 
But  God's  white  fire  is  low  and  dim, 

In  our  souls  and  lives  it  falters. 

We  have  anise  and  cummin,  spice  and  myrrh  ; 

We  have  stole  and  font  and  chalice, 
Cross  and  cushion  for  worshipper, 

And  unction  for  lips  of  malice  ; 
Nave  and  chancel,  with  organs  grand  ; 

Messiahs  (operatic  and  holy)  ; 
79 


8o  WANTED,    MEN. 

And  vestibules  where  "  the  lost "  may  stand, 
With  the  shivering  poor  and  lowly. 

Gorgeous  temples  of  brick  and  stone, 

Gilded  and  carved  and  fretted  ; 
Flowers  and  vases  adorn  the  "  throne," 

And  "  mourners  "  (for  sins  regretted)  ; 
"  Talent  "  in  pulpit  at  highest  price 

Breaks  "  the  bread  of  life  "  serenely  ; 
Wealth  and  fashion,  pride  and  vice, 

Tread  the  velvet  aisles  how  queenly  ! 

Brewers,  importers,  and  jobbers  make 

Fine  pillars  for  churches  of  power, 
Mild  and  soft  (for  subscriptions'  sake  !) 

The  lessons  they  give  the  hour. 
O  mouldy  legends  and  iron  creeds, 

Vain  words  for  the  lives  that  perish, 
We  want  the  service  of  gentle  deeds, 

Heart-dew,  and  the  arms  that  cherish  ! 


WANTED,    MEN.  8 1 

We  want  a  faith  that  shall  ever  keep 

True  step  with  the  works  of  kindness  ; 
A  priest  so  "  high  "  that  his  glance  will  sweep 

Through  the  mists  of  our  social  blindness  ; 
Not  quaking  slaves  to  a  council  stern, 

But  men  of  a  wise  endeavor, 
Whose  love  of  God  and  of  man  shall  burn 

In  their  thoughts  and  lives  forever. 

See,  Mammon  is  v/elcome  at  every  hearth, 

While  our  Lord  is  a  Sunday  caller  ! 
Style  and  splendor,  with  lofty  birth, 

Make  the  rights  of  man  look  smaller  ! 
Sound  and  whining  or  frantic  zeal 

Drown  the  still  small  voice  of  duty, 
And  few  are  the  Christian  hearts  to  feel 

A  meek  life's  chastened  beauty. 

The  age  wants  men  who  can  front  the  stars 
With  their  manhood's  gaze  undaunted, 


82  WANTED,    MEN. 

And  keep  white  lives  from  the  evil  scars 
The  world's  vile  code  has  granted. 

Bold  men  of  brain,  in  whose  veins  the  blood 
Runs  warm  with  a  hero's  yearning, 

Like  the  martyred  sires  who  unblenching  stood, 
All  the  tyrants'  thunder  spurning. 

Brave  men  to  question,  to  think  and  know, 

To  walk  with  a  victor's  tread, 
Unshamed  in  detraction's  fiery  glow, 

If  in  honor's  path  they  led. 
To  face  a  fact,  or  a  blazing  gun, 

As  calm  as  death,  and  true 
To  the  heart  their  love  has  divinely  won, 

With  a  siren's  host  in  view  ; 

Men  hard  as  flint  to  the  tempter's  wiles, 

Impregnable  as  Gibraltar, 
Tender,  subduing,  in  love's  rare  smiles, 

With  a  faith  that  may  not  falter  ; 


WANTED,    MEN.  83 

As  Lincoln  modest,  as  Paul  a  king 
Of  the  mind's  august  dominion, — 

Poet,  apostle,  the  truth  to  sing, 
And  lord  of  his  own  opinion. 

O  thou  of  Nazareth,  pure  and  mild,-— 

Our  brother,  the  type  and  Saviour  ! — 
Who  said  :  "  Become  as  a  little  child  " 

In  trust  and  in  kind  behavior  ; 
Come  nearer,  dwell  in  our  secret  lives, 

To  ennoble,  to  bless,  and  hallow  ; 
Sow  deep,  set  free  from  our  fashion  gyves, — 

Thou  knowest  our  hearts  lie  fallow  ! 

We  have  quenched  the  fires  of  the  cruel  stake, 
We  have  shivered  the  axe  and  fetter  ; 

Now  grant,  O  Lord  !  for  thy  truth's  own  sake, 
That  we  make  thy  world  still  better, — 

That  we  love  thy  little  ones,  near  and  far, 
With  the  heart's  supreme  emotion, 


£4  WANTED,    MEN. 

If  in  marble  halls,  or  with  bolt  and  bar, 
Humane  with  a  just  devotion. 

Oh,  hear  us,  Lord,  and  help  us,  man, 

To  walk  in  the  light  of  reason  ; 
To  evolve  a  hope,  to  devise  some  plan, 

To  crush  out  our  social  treason  ! 
Must  the  beacon  flame  of  the  world  go  out 

In  the  tempest  of  sin  and  sorrow  ? 
Let  us  put  the  legions  of  wrong  to  rout, 

And  conquer  a  grand  to-morrow  ! 


CHICAGO. 


Imperial  city,  rising  from  the  wave 
As  erst  fair  Venus,  beautiful  as  morn  ! 

From  thy  most  utter  night,  rejoicing,  brave, 
Loyal,  resplendent  as  of  ocean  born  ! 

I  greet  thy  towers,  thy  palaces  of  art, 

Imposing  domes  and  vast  expanse,  with  tears, 

Thou  wondrous  centre  of  the  world's  great  mart, 
Giant  of  strength  and  beauty  !    Though  the  years 

Have  brought  thee  desolation,  yet  behold  ! 

From  prairie,  lake,  and  forest,  writ  in  light, 
In  thunderous  vapor,  fold  on  mystic  fold, 

I  read  thy  destiny  of  worth  and  might. 

85 


86  CHICAGO. 

Heart  of  a  nation,  unto  man  how  dear  ! 

Young,  ardent,  ah  !  thy  every  pulse  doth  beat 
In  time  with  progress  ;  not  a  doubt  or  fear 

Shadows  thy  future,  glorious,  complete. 

Here,  Douglas  of  the  lion  heart,  thy  hand 

Scattered  rich  blessings  ;  here,  sweet  Pity  shed 

The  balm  of  succor  o'er  a  bleeding  land, 
And  our  spent  armies  unto  triumph  led. 

Religion,  learning,  high  inventive  art, 

Far-spreading  loveliness  in  flower  and  tree, — 

God's  special  favor  surely  hath  had  part 
To  work  this  marvel  of  an  inland  sea. 

Soon  shall  the  white  sails  of  old  Ocean  spread 
Their  wings  above  thee,  every  nation  send 

Its  banner'd  greeting  to  Chicago,  head 

Of  commerce,  and  for  aye  the  exile's  friend. 


NORTH. 


He  resteth  now, — the  lone  and  weary-hearted  ! 

Let  gentle  snow-flakes  kiss  his  weary  bed  ; 
Self-righteous  world,  the  desolate  departed 

Is  safely  sheltered  from  your  crushing  tread. 
Hurl  your  anathemas  !  judge  him  who  flung 

Life  from  him  like  a  curse,  and  unappalled  ! 
Sneer  at  the  lyre,  too  soon,  alas  !  unstrung  ! 

Marvel  he  sought  his  Maker's  face  uncalled  ! 

Uncalled,  say  ye  ?     How  know  ye  that  his  pillow 

Gave  not  bright  beings  to  his  fancy's  eye, 
Who  beckoned  him  to  dare  death's  darksome  bil 
low, 

And  seek  the  peace  of  those  who  early  die  ? 

87 


88  NORTH. 

Perchance  the  seraph  voice  of  one  who  blended 
The  woman  with  the  angel  o'er  the  sea 

Came  whispering,  when   the  day's  cold  strife  was 

ended  : 
"  Beloved,  Heaven  is  lonely  without  thee  !  " 


INVOCATION. 

O  friend,  amid  the  stately  pines 

That  murmurous  music  yield  to  thee, 
Recall'st  thou  the  enchanted  climes, 

St.  Lawrence  broad  and  clear  and  free  ? 
What  time  we  sailed  in  summer  calm, 

With  moonlight  glinting  wave  and  beach, 
To  meet  the  south  wind's  kiss  of  balm, 

Surpassing  melody  of  speech  ? 

At  night  when  the  Nevada  gleams, 
Like  castle  turrets,  white  and  cold, 

And  all  the  azure  archway  streams 
With  oriflamme  of  gems  and  gold  ; 

Upon  thy  lonely  snow-crowned  beat, 
Where  foams  and  falls  the  mountain  rill, 


90  INVOCATION. 

Come  visions  of  our  voyages  sweet, 
By  sheltered  bay  and  wooded  hill  ? 

And  fairy  isles  that  slept  serene 

Upon  the  river's  peaceful  breast, 
While  cloth  of  gold  some  naiad  queen 

Trailed  regally  along  the  west  ; 
With  furrows  left  by  gliding  keel, 

And  lilies  clasping  to  their  hearts 
The  golden  secrets  stars  reveal 

When  rosy  Day  at  length  departs  ? 

Still  on  and  on,  as  spirits  float, 

Through  waves  of  ether  opal-rifted, 
Too  blest,  enrapt,  to  ever  note 

If  down  to  death  we  slowly  drifted  ; 
Now  sighing  faint,  with  clover  gales, 

Then  distant  bell  rang  out  delight, 
Anon  the  dusky  grotto  vales, — 

A  fitting  scene  for  such  a  night. 


INVOCATION.  91 

Ah  !  from  thy  lips  that  keep  for  me 

Poems  no  bard  hath  ever  sung, 
Still  falls  the  entrancing  melody 

Of  Grecian  isles  when  time  was  young  ? 
Fair  river,  clasp  unto  thy  breast 

Our  love,— nay,  tell  it  to  the  main  ! 
Old  Ocean,  bear  it  to  the  West, 

And  wake  his  smile  for  me  again  ! 


IF  ONLY. 


If  only  over  the  wastes  of  snow 

The  sweet  south  wind  like  a  breath  would  blow, 

Soft  and  fitful,  as  comes  and  goes 

The  breath  of  my  one  white  folded  Rose, 

Sleeping  to-night  in  the  moonbeams  fair, 

That  touch  with  blessing  her  bonnie  hair, 

Afar  where  the  south-land  smiling  lies 

Under  the  hyacinth  brooding  skies, — 

The  dull,  sad  ache  of  my  heart  would  cease 

As  the  spring's  warm  kiss  gives  the  buds  release. 

If  only  a  May-bird,  brave  and  free, 
Could  come  on  a  mission  of  hope  to  me, 

A  winged  echo  of  songs  that  float, 
92 


IF    ONLY.  93 

Clear  and  glad  from  her  dainty  throat, 
Bringing  the  charm  of  my  darling's  face, 
Her  clasping  arms  in  a  fond  embrace, — 
The  billows  of  snow  on  the  dreary  wold 
Would  change  to  meadows  of  green  and  gold, 
Scent  of  clover  and  hum  of  bees 
Drift  through  the  lawn  and  its  stately  trees. 

The  brook  that  ripples  in  laughter  light 
Where  the  daisy  flutters  her  signal  white, 
And  mottled  lilies,  like  knights  of  yore 
Trailing  their  banners  through  gouts  of  gore, 
With  plumy  ferns  where  the  blue-bells  chime 
Low  to  the  heart  of  its  love-lit  clime, 
And  all  the  pomp  of  the  summer  thrills 
Like  a  breeze  from  the  sun-kissed,  purple  hills, 
Where  the  Arno  sings  to  the  waiting  sea, 
As  my  soul  floats  out  in  a  psalm  to  thee. 


THINK  NOBLE  THINGS  OF  GOD. 


If  wrong  and  sorrow  compass  thee, 
Keep  step  with  nature's  harmony, 
Anon  the  evil  shadows  flee. 

If,  sowing  full  and  precious  grain, 
The  harvest  yield  thee  bitter  pain, 
Say  not  that  human  love  is  vain. 

If  earnest  eyes  of  tender  trust 

Grow  cold  (as  blind  with  doubt  they  must), 

See  that  thou  fail  not  to  be  just. 

There  comes  an  hour  to  him,  to  thee, 
When  all  thy  true  heart's  fealty 

Shall  dower  his  soul  with  purity. 
94 


THINK    NOBLE    THINGS    OF    GOD,  95 

If  finding  some  poor  lamb  astray 
(Even  thy  foe's)  while  yet  't  is  day 
Bear  it  to  fold  by  mercy's  way. 

If,  when  the  twilight  comes  to  weep, 

Thy  little  summer  daisy  sleep, 

Doubt  not  that  God  the  germ  will  keep. 

When  in  the  brown  and  gracious  mould 
Thy  flower  lies,  from  heart  of  gold 
An  angel's  wings  of  light  unfold. 

For  "  God  is  God  "  ;  whate'er  betide, 

His  love  and  justice  will  abide, 

And  find  thee  through  thy  mail  of  pride. 

Though  creeds  conflict,  they  do  not  jar 
His  purpose — not  a  flower  or  star 
But  smiles  from  out  the  smoke  of  war. 


96  THINK    NOBLE    THINGS    OF    GOD. 

Are  we  not  parts  of  God  ?  and  lo  ! 
Where'er  thou  goest  He  must  go, 
Even  beyond  the  hills  of  snow, 

From  harebell  to  anemone, 

That  waves  in  some  fair  southern  sea, 

To  worlds  that  fill  immensity, 

His  universe  is  not  the  loom 
Where  any  thread  will  fail  too  soon  ; 
The  fair  design  will  bud  and  bloom. 

"  Think  noble  things  of  God,"  for  then 

It  follows  that  thy  fellow-men 

From  thee  shall  suffer  wrong  nor  pain. 


THE  ENGINEER'S  STORY. 

We  were  buried  in  the  snow-field,  in  the  canons 
east  Pacific, 

Short  of  sunshine,  yet  the  storm-fiend  in  his  bless 
ings  most  prolific, 

And,  between  the  lack  of  coal  and  the  scant  supply 
of  rations, 

The  terminus  seemed  nearing  without  passing  any 
stations. 


Now,  to  shoot  across  the  chasms,  and  to  reach  the 

grand  Sierras, 
Where  the  stars  in   smoke    and  vapor   seem   like 

ruddy,  hanging  cherries, 
97 


98  THE  ENGINEER'S  STORY. 

With  the  air  like    an  elixir,  is   a    rapture  worthy 

heroes, — 
But  to  starve  in  prisons,  comrades,  with  the  weather 

in  the  zeroes  ! 


We   had  toiled  like  giants,  listened  for  the    "  fast 

express  "  with  faces 
Begrimed,  yet  white,  and  not  with  frost,  nor  bright 

with  Christian  graces  ; 
The  hunger  and  the  cold,  you  see,  on  railroad  men 

are  trying, 
And  the  face  of  honest  labor  is  a  poor  resort  for 

lying. 


You  can  brave  a  danger   coming  with  a  shriek  and 

rush  and  tremble, 
Like  a  roar  of  bursting  bombs, — not  Death  stooping 

dissemble, 


THE  ENGINEER'S  STORY.  99 

And  stealing  on  you  softlj,  like  a  great  white  bear, 

to  smother 
Every  manly  throb,  until  you  turn  aghast  from  one 

another. 


God  of  mercy  !  that  last  evening,  by  our   dim   fire, 

hunger-driven, 
Failing  succor,  only  whiskey,  failing  hope,  (and  may 

be  Heaven,) 
Can  you  marvel  if  we  broke  the  pledge,  even  passing 

it  to  Brodie  ? 
He  struck  the  flask  aside,  and  groaned  :  "  Not  if  I 

perish,  Maudie  ! 


"  Don't,  boys  !  see,  here  are  rations  ;  I  have  saved 

mine  for  your  taking  ; 
Leave  the  poison  ;   I   am  glad  to  die,  my  heart  has 

long  been  breaking  ; 


ioo  THE  ENGINEER'S  STORY. 

Eat,  while  I  pray  to  God,  and  her,  my  darling  and 

my  angel !  " 
Then  we  knew  oar  grim  old  hero  was  a  martyr,  an 

evangel. 


Were    we  blind  ?     But    woe    is    selfish,    and    the 

engineer  was  dying. 
"  Nay,  my  boys,  to  starve  is  nothing  to    remorse 

that 's  ever  sighing. 
I  used  to   run  the  '  lightning '  on  the  Central,  and 

the  fellows 
Always  smiled  to  see  me  hasten  when  we  came  in 

sight  of  Bellows. 

"  For  my  daughter,  little  Maudie,  with  her  hair  like 
sunbeams  braided, 

And  eyes  of  tender  yearning  by  the  white  Nor 
mandy  shaded ; 


THE    ENGINEERS   STORY.  IOI 

Ribbons  flying,  ringlets  dancing,  lips  aglow  with 

merry  greeting  ; 
Dimpled  arms  held  out  to  clasp  me  ;  oh,  the  bliss 

of  such  a  meeting  !  " 


And  the  great  sad  eyes  grew  misty,  like  the  gloam 
ing  by  a  river  ; 

And  the  brown  hand  sought  his  bosom  in  an  eager 
sort  of  shiver, — 

Found,  and  kissed  a  locket  meekly  with  the  blanch 
ing  lips  of  famine  ; 

Showed  it  us  :  "  My  crucifix  ! — please,  boys,  no 
more  of  damning." 

"Such    a  beauty! — Is   she   living?"     Poor    Jack 

Brodie,  kneeling,  crying  : 
*'  Living  ?  yes,  with  holy  beings  ! — but  I   saw  my 

baby  lying 


102  THE  ENGINEER'S  STORY. 

Stark  and  crushed  beneath  my  engine, — can  I  ever 

hope  to  reach  her  ? 
Is  there   expiation,  mercy,   for  a  lost,   a  wretched 

creature  ? 


"  I  had  drank  that  fatal  morning,  and  a  broken  rail 

was  lying 
Near  the  crossing  ;    she  espied  it,  and  with  tiny 

lantern  flying, 
Bravely  swung  the  warning  signal.      But  my  hand, 

alas,  unsteady  ! — 
And  I  staggered,  sick   with   horror,    to   her  little 

mangled  body." 


He  was  silent,  gasping,  shaking,  but  a  cry  of  anguish 

ringing 
Through  the  car  with  sobs  of  pity,  and  Jack  Bro- 

die,  kneeling,  clinging 


THE  ENGINEER'S  STORY.  103 

To   her   sweet  face   within  failing  sight, — "  Don't 
drink,  my  boys,"  he  said  ; 

"  I  have  tried  to  do  a  little  good,  my  angel !  "—Jack 
was  dead. 


How  we  knelt  and  kissed  his  forehead,  kissed  her 

pictured  face  so  fair  ; 
And  we  took  the  pledge  forever,  in  the  solemn  hush 

of  prayer, 
Resolved  to  die  (if  die  we  must)  like  men,  not  as 

the  beast, — 
And  then  we  heard   the   "  General   Grant  "  come 

screaming  from  the  East. 


JUSTICE   IN  LEADVnLLE. 


Yes,  law  is  a  great  thing,  mister,  but  justice  comes 

in  ahead 

When  a  lie  makes  a  fiend  not  guilty,  and  the  neigh 
bor  he  shot  is  dead. 
Leadville  would  follow  the  fashion, — have  regular 

courts  of  law, — 
I  take  no  stock  in  lawyers,  don't  gamble  upon  their 

jaw; 
But  the  judge  he  said  Gueldo  undoubtedly  did  for 

Blake, 

And  we  ought  to  give  him  a  trial,  just  for  appear 
ance'  sake  ; 

That  Texas  chap  can't  clear  him,  the  lead  's  too 
rich  to  hide, 

104 


JUSTICE    IN    LEADVILLE.  105 

And  the  black  neck  of  the  Spaniard  on  the  air-line  's 

bound  to  ride. 
So  I  tried  to  believe  in  the  woman  with  the  bandage 

upon  her  eyes, 
Though  one  side  's  as  likely  as  t'  other  to  drop  from 

the  beam  or  rise 
If  a  nugget  should  tip  the  balance  or  a  false  tongue 

cry  the  weight  ; 
But  I  thought  I  'd  see  if   a  trial  was  "  the  regular 

thing  "  for  Kate. 
So  I  went  to  her  pretty  cottage  ;  the  widow  's  a  tidy 

thing, — 
Great  mournful  eyes,  and  a  head  of  hair  as  brown 

as  a  heron's  wing. 

Her  husband's  murder  was  cruel  ;  Antonio,  fierce 

and  sly, 
Had  sworn  revenge  for  a  trifle  when  some  of  the 

boys  were  nigh. 


106  JUSTICE    IN    LEADVILLE. 

She  had  tripped  to  her  bed  of  pansies,  for  Blake  was 

going  away  ; 
While  he  bent  to  embrace  their  baby  she  gathered  a 

love  bokay. 
She  heard  a  voice, — Gueldo's, — a  shot, — and  she 

ran  to  Jim  ; 
But    the    baby's   white   dress  was  scarlet,   and  his 

father's  eyes  were  dim. 
You  've  heard  the  cry  of  a  bittern  ? — it   was  just 

that  sort  of  a  noise  ; 
It  brought  us  there  in  a  hurry, — the  women   and 

half  the  boys. 

She  tried  to  tell  us  the  story, — her  white  lips  only 

stirred  ; 
She  seemed  to  slip  quite  out  of  life,  and  could  n't 

utter  a  word. 
She  told   us  at   last  in  writing,  only  a  name, — and 

then 


JUSTICE    IN    LEADVILLE.  107 

Six    derringers   found  his   level,    his   guard   was   a 

dozen  men. 
She  did  n't   take   on,   seemed   frozen, — but   Lord  ! 

what  a  ghastly  face  ! 
With  slow,  sad  steps,  like  the  shade  of  joy,  she  crept 

round  the  woful  place, 
And  when  we  lifted  the  coffin  she  knelt  with  her 

little  child, 
Just  whispered  to  Jim  and  kissed  him  ;  we  said  she 

was  going  wild. 

Ah  !  deep  things  yield  no  token,  and  she  wa'  n't 

surface  gold  ; 
'T  was  a  gloomy  job  prospecting  round  the  claim 

Jim  could  n't  hold. 
But  I  found  her  rocking  the  baby,  her  chin  in  the 

dainty  palm, 
White  as  the  shaver's  pillow,  tearless,  and  dreadful 

calm. 


IOS  JUSTICE    IN    LEADVILLE. 

I  told  her  about  the  trial  ;  she  shuddered,  her  great 

black  eyes 
Flashed  out  such  a  danger  signal, — or  may  be  it 

was.surprise. 
"  They  never  can  clear  Gueldo, — he  cannot  escape, 

for  I 
Can  swear  to  his  hissing  Spanish, — that  I  saw  him 

turn  and  fly  !  " 
"  No,  never,"  I  said  ;  "  his  ticket  is  good  for  the 

underground  ; 
He  's  due  this  time  to-morrow  where  he  won't  find 

Blake  around." 

The  judge  held  court  in  his  wood-house,  and  Bagget 

had  stripped  his  store 
Of  barrel  and  box  ;  I  never  set  eyes  on  a  crowd 

before. 
I  dropped  on  a  keg  of  ciscos,  the  judge  on  a  box  of 

soap  ; 
Gueldo  and  his  attorney  found  seats  on  a  coil  of  rope. 


JUSTICE    IN    LEADVILLE.  109 

Then  Kate  came,  with  her  baby  like   a   rosebud  in 

the  snow, 
Its   pink   cheek   against   the    mother's   pallid   and 

pinched  with  woe. 
Jim's  blue  eyes,  as  I  live,  sir  !  there  were   his  very 

curls  ; 
They  set  us  miners  to  sobbing  like  a  corral  of  silly 

girls. 
She  looked   so  thankful  on  us,  colored,  and  when 

she  met 
The  snake  eyes  of  Gueldo,  the  braids  on  her  brow 

were  wet  ; 
And  if  the  hell  of  the  preachers  had  yawned  on  our 

gentle  Kate, 
She  could  n't  have  glared  such  horror  or  woman's 

deadly  hate. 

Well,  they  went  on  with   the  trial  ;  an  alibi,  it  was 

claimed, 
Would  be  urged  for  the  wolf  defendant ;  the  judge, — 

well,  he  looked  ashamed, 


HO  JUSTICE    IN    LEADVILLE. 

When  ten  of  the  hardest  rascals,  the  cruellest,  mean 
est  lot, 
Swore,  black  and  blue,  Gueldo  was  four  miles  from 

the  spot 
With  them,  a-hunting  the  grizzly  ;  then  the  Texan 

pled  his  case, 
Till  the  judge  turned  pale  as  ashes, — could  n't  look 

in  an  honest  face. 
"Your   verdict,    my   men    of   the    jury,    must   be 

grounded,  I  suppose, 
On  the  weight  of  the  testimony  ;  if  you  have  any 

faith  in  those 
Re//able  fellows  from  Gouger,  the  prisoner  was  not 

thar." 
And  his  honor  growled  upon  him  like  a  vexed  and 

and  hungry  b'ar. 

I  've  noticed  the  newest  convert  prays  loudest  of  all 
the  camp  ; 


JUSTICE   IN    LEADVILLE.  Ill 

And    that    mutton-headed  jury  declared    for    the 
cussed  scamp. 

For   nothing  Kate's  truthful   story  ;    the  evidence 
went,  you  see, 

To  disprove  the  facts  ;  Gueldo  by  the  law  was  ac 
quitted,  free. 

"  You  can  go,"  said  the  judge ;    "  but  likely  the 
climate  won't  suit  you  here." 

Antonio  rose  defiant. 

Then  Kate  spoke,  low  and  clear, 

(Clasping  her  babe,  and  rising,)   "Are  you  done 
with  the  prisoner,  sir  ?  " 

As  a  marble  statue  might  ask  it.     His  honor  bowed 
to  her, — 

"Heaven   knows  I'm   sorry  I   am,  child."     "Be 
cause,"  she  replied,  "  I  am  not." 

A   flash   from  her  eyes   and  pistol, — the   Mexican 
devil  was  shot. 

The  smoke  made  a  little  halo  round  the  laughing 
baby's  head. 


112  JUSTICE    IN    LEADVILLE. 

Then    I  knew  the  terrible  promise  she  whispered 

her  husband  dead. 
Gueldo  staggered,  falling,  his  swart  face  scared  and 

grim,— 
"  Dead,  gentlemen  of  the  jury  !     Decision  reversed 

for  him  ! 
And  justice  !"  we  heard  her  murmur,  though  she 

was  n't  the  talking  kind, 
And  she  had  n't  the  least  allusion  to  that  female 

pictured  blind. 
Trembling   she   turned    upon   us    the   eyes    of    a 

wounded  doe  ; 
"  Amen  !  "   from    the   weeping  neighbors  ;    "  God 

help  you  !  "  the  judge  said  ;   "  go  !  " 


COMPANY  K. 


Inscribed  to  its  Colonel,  Hon.  A.  G. 


Up  in  the  garret,  with  quaint,  dear  things — 
Baby's  crib,  where  he  found  his  wings, 
And  floated  away  from  me,  fast  and  far, — 
I  keep  this  blood-stained,  battered  star. 
And  all  that  its  blue,  cold  lips  can  say, 
A  bullet's  inscription,  and  "  Company  K." 

Under  the  eaves  in  the  sweet  May  sun 
Swallows  are  piping,  the  love  task  done  ; 
Robins  and  lilacs,  beauty  and  sound, 
Life  is  pulsing  in  all  around  ; 
But  through  the  vista  of  tears,  to-day, 

I  see  them  muster  our  Company  K. 
"3 


114  COMPANY    K. 

Just  out  there,  on  the  village  park, 

In  May-day  sunshine  they  gather — hark .' 

Mournful  drum-beats  and  bugle's  call, 

Our  boys  in  blue — I  behold  them  all  ; 

Stalwart,  manly,  heroic,  gay, — 

Strange — there  's  but  one  man  of  Company  K. 

One  white  forehead  with  locks  of  dun, 
A  fond  mouth's  sweetness  (only  one), 
A  long  "farewell "  in  the  tender  eyes, 
A  red  rose  kissed  in  a  rapt  surprise, 
A  gallant  salute  as  he  rode  away 
To  death  and  honor,  my  Company  K. 

Alas  !  why  tell  of  the  awful  strife, 

His  battles  of  death,  and  my  battles  of  life — 

The  tiny  marvel  of  love  and  grace, 

That  never  might  look  on  his  father's  face, 

The  blighted  bud  on  my  heart  that  lay 

One  year  from  the  marching  of  Company  K. 


COMPANY    K.  115 

Ah,  well  !  his  letters  were  "  bread  and  wine  " 
To  lips  of  famine  :  he  said  that  mine 
"  Had  baby  fingers  and  eyes  "  to  him, 
So  dear,  all  the  stars  on  the  flag  grew  dim 
In  memory's  mist  through  the  deadly  fray 
That  covered  with  glory  brave  Company  K. 

Then  came  the  last !  the  despatch  had  said  : 

"At  Gettysburg  the  reserve  he  led  ; 

(And  had  he  lived,)  from  our  Grant's  own  hand 

A  general's  brevet  of  the  Army  Grand." 

But  this  my  darling  had  strength  to  say: 

"  My  love,  remember  !  "  and  "  Company  K." 

We  found  the  dust  of  a  red  rose  there, 

Just  beneath  this  star,  and  a  tress  of  hair, 

And  the  golden  head  of  our  baby  lies 

Close  to  his  lips  and  his  brooding  eyes, 

See  !  the  sod  will  break  into  flowers  of  May, 

Keeping  tryst  with  my  star  of  old  Company  K. 


GUESS   WHO  ? 


I  know  a  little  dark-eyed  maid, 
With  hair  of  ebon-gloss  and  shade, 
With  lips  of  coral,  and  a  grace 
In  speech,  and  form,  and  lovely  face  : 
Ah,  one  a  fairy  prince  might  woo  ! 
Guess  who  ? 

And  oft  with  such  a  pensive  charm 
In  those  sweet  eyes  we  take  alarm, 
Lest  beings  hid  from  us  may  stand 
And  beckon  her  to  angel  land  ; 
I  know  her  name,  and  so  do  you  ! 
Guess  who  ? 

She  sings  like  birds  that  soaring  die, 

Such  rapt  repose  in  lip  and  eye  ! 
116 


GUESS    WHO  ?  117 

I  watch  to  see  her  drift  from  sight, 
Leaving  my  world  in  utter  night. 
She  loves  me,  but  she  loves  not  you  ! 
Guess  who  ? 


ONLY  A  WOMAN. 

The  heroine  of  "  Long  Point  Isle,"  like  a  schooner's 

mast  she  stands, 
With  mother-love  in  smile  and  voice,  if  brown  her 

shapely  hands  ; 
Broad  bosomed,  large  of  limb  !    blue  eyes  of  clear 

and  level  glance 
Look   out    'neath   brow    serene   with   thoughts   of 

childhood  and  of  France  ; 
And  when   the  wild  waves    rend    the    dunes,    she 

dreams  of  old  Marseilles, 
For  Erie  rages  like  the  sea    in  fierce   December 

gales. 

Hers  all  a  woman's  patient  trust,  a  woman's  cour 
age  fine  •, 

118 


ONLY    A    WOMAN.  1 19 

Her  hair  like  ancient  viking's  gold,  her  lips  as  red 

as  wine. 
The  simple  wonder  of  her  gaze,  its  pathos  deep 

inclines 
The  mind  to  pictured  saints,  the  dames  of  Spenser's 

classic  lines. 
She   moves   with    free,    unstudied    grace,   Juno    in 

russet  gray  ! 

A  noble  nature  giveth  ease,  the  royal  right  of  way 
To  every  heart,  for  never  soul  as  white  and  brave 

was  sent 
To  yearn  and  strive 'for  broader  range,  in   sickly 

tenement. 
Where  comes  the  wild  sea-fowl  to  moult,  the  mink 

to  build  her  nest, 

The  antlered  deer  to  drink,  where  flames  the  cloud- 
empurpled  west ; 
Where    cedared    swamps    with    ghostly   birch    and 

mournful  sighing  pines 


I2O  ONLY    A    WOMAN. 

Shadow  the  pools  and  sand-hills  draped  with  noi 
some  tangled  vines. 

In  trapper's  hut,  with  precious  brood,  six  fair-haired 
sons  and  daughters, 

She  dignifies  her  low  estate,  this  "  Lady  of  the 
Waters." 

Did  she  ponder  on  the  problems  that  perplex  our 
modern  thought  ? 

Did  she  sigh  for  wealth  and  glory  ?  Nay  ;  the  ser 
vice  that  she  brought 

Was  love's  unwearied  struggle  for  the  timid  lambs 
afold, 

Unselfish  duties  meekly  done,  with  spirit  strong 
and  bold. 

The  "Conductor,"  Captain  Hackett,  sailing  west 
ward  for  the  straits, 

Met  the  demons  of  the  tempest  in  the  seething, 
blackened  gates 


ONLY    A    WOMAN.  121 

Where  the  Lake  of  Woods  is  narrowed  by  the  island 

and  the  land. 
Frozen  spray  and  shoal  around  him,  terrors  dire  on 

every  hand, 
And  the  gallant  schooner  foundered,  like  a  hunted 

stag  at  bay ; 
Lashed  to  icy  masts,  poor  tortured  ones,  they  waited 

for  the  day. 
And  when  it  broke  in  snow  and  wind,  horror  fell 

upon  the  men  ; 
Vain  the  hope  of  human  succor  in  the  "Devil's 

Cut"!     But  then- 
Was  it  angel  ?     Was  it  woman  ?     Lo  !  between  the 

surges  high 
And  a  mighty  bonfire  blazing,  something  mortal 

draweth  nigh  ! 
It  is  she,  the  hermit  matron.     She  has  left  her  little 

flock, 

Reaching  arms  of  mad  entreaty  where  the  freezing 
sailors  rock 


122  ONLY    A    WOMAN. 

In  the  creaking  shrouds,  yet  shrinking  from  the 
yawning  grave  below. 

In  vain  her  "signal  service";  still  they  clung,  in 
fear  and  woe, 

Until  sunset  slowly  lifted  its  black  lid  in  angry  fire 

On  the  shipwreck  and  the  woman,  on  the  broad 
and  flashing  pyre. 

Then  she  cried  in  anguish  :  "  Father,  keep  my  little 
ones  ! "  and  bore 

Streaming  torch  above  her,  dashing  through  the  surf 
that  rent  the  shore. 

There  with  death  the  captain  battled  ;  and  with 
sinews  pity-strung 

She  snatched  him  from  the  undertow ;  a  giantess, 
she  sprung 

Up  dizzy  bank,  and  laid  her  prize  beside  the  glow 
ing  coals — 

Returned,  and,  one  by  one,  she  saved  the  six  im 
perilled  souls. 


ONLY    A    WOMAN.  123 

"One  for  every  child,"  she  murmured  ;  "life  for 

life  !  bless  God  !  "  and  went 
To  her  round  of  quiet  duties,  singing  in  her  sweet 

content. 


COMPENSATION. 


We  love  the  flowers  for  their  own  sweet  sakes, 

And  music  joy  inherent  only  wakes  • 

Time  brings  no  more,  O  darling  !  than  he  takes. 

It  matters  little  to  the  river  deep 

If  skies  do  smile  or  frown,  or  even  weep  ; 

And  love  alone  can  love,  or  win,  or  keep. 

To  him  who  has  a  well-spring  of  delight 

Within  his  bosom  comes  no  bitter  blight  ; 

The  King  of  Day  shuns  not  the  Queen  of  Night. 

He  is  not  rich  who  never  suffered  loss  ; 
Nor  saddest  life  that  meekly  bears  its  cross  ; 

And  truth  is  sweet,  though  barren  of  all  gloss. 
124 


COMPENSATION.  125 

"  The  kingdom  is  within  you,"  not  without  ; 

To  him  who  trusts  there  is  not  any  doubt  ; 

And  Love's  calm  front  can  put  dark  Hate  to  rout. 


LITTLE    PHIL. 


"Make  me  a  head-board,  mister,  smooth  and  painted; 
you  see, 

Our  ma  she  died  last  winter,  and  sister  and  Jack 
and  me 

Last  Sunday  could  hardly  find  her,  so  many  new 
graves  about, 

And  Bud  cried  out,  '  We  've  lost  her,'  when  Jack 
gave  a  little  shout. 

We  have  worked  and  saved  all  winter — been  hun 
gry  sometimes,  I  own — 

But  we  hid  this  much  from  father  under  the  old 
door-stone. 

He  never  goes  there  to  see  her  ;   he  hated  her  ; 

scolded  Jack 

126 


LITTLE    PHIL.  127 

When  he  heard  us  talking  about  her  and  wishing 

that  she  'd  come  back. 
But  up  in  the  garret  we  whisper,  and  have  a  good 

time  to  cry, — 
Our  beautiful  mother  who  kissed  us,  and  was  n't 

afraid  to  die. 
Put  on  it  that  she  was  forty,  in  November  she  went 

away, 
That  she  was  the  best  of  mothers,  and  we  have  n't 

forgot  to  pray ; 
And  we  mean  to  do  as  she  taught  us — be  loving 

and  true  and  square, 
To  work  and  read,  to  love  her,  till  we  go  to  her  up 

there. 
Let  the  board  be  white,  like  mother"  (the  small 

chin  quivered  here, 

And  the  lad  coughed  something  under,  and  con 
quered  a  rebel  tear.) 
"  Here  is  all  we  could  keep  from  father,  a  dollar 

and  thirty  cents, 


128  LITTLE    PHIL. 

The  rest  he  has  got  for  coal  and  flour,  and  partly 

to  pay  the  rents." 

Blushing  the  white  lie  over,  and  dropping  the  hon 
est  eyes  : 
"  What  is  the  price  of  head-boards,  with  writing  and 

handsome  size  ? " 
"Three  dollars  !  " — a  young  roe  wounded  just  falls 

with  a  moan,  and  he, 
With  a  face  like  the  ghost  of  his  mother,  sank  down 

on  his  tattered  knee  : 
"  Three  dollars  ?  and  we  shall  lose  her,  next  winter, 

— the  graves  and  snow  !  " 
But  the  boss  had  his  arms  about  him,  and  cuddled 

the  head  of  tow 
Close  up  to  the  great  heart's  shelter,  and  womanly 

tears  fell  fast : 
"  Dear  boy,  you  never  shall  lose  her.     O  cling  to 

your  sacred  past ! 
Come  to-morrow,  and  bring  your  sister  and  Jack, 

and  the  board  shall  be 


LITTLE    PHIL.  I  29 

The  best  that  this  shop  can  furnish, — then  come 
here  and  live  with  me." 

When  the  orphans    loaded   their    treasure  on   the 

rugged  old  cart  next  day, 
The  surprise  of  a  foot-board  varnish,  with  all  that 

their  love  could  say  : 
And  "  Edith  St.  John,  our  Mother  !  "   baby  Jack 

gave  his  little  shout  ; 
And  Bud,  like  a  mountain  daisy,  went  dancing  her 

doll  about  ; 
But  Phil  grew  white  and  trembled,  and  close  to  the 

boss  he  crept, 
Kissing  him  like  a  woman,  shivered  and  laughed 

*  and  wept  ; 
"  Do   you   think,   my  benefactor,  in    Heaven    that 

she  '11  be  glad  ? " 
"  Not  so  glad  as  you  are,  Philip  ;  but  finish  this  job, 

my  lad." 


SURVIVAL. 

"  Alas,"  one  said,  "  your  garden  sweets  will  live 

To  lure  the  butterfly,  gay  bird,  and  bee, 

When  you,  dear  heart,  have  found  the  unknown  sea, 

Whence  no  returning  ship  can  tidings  give 

Of  blissful  voyagers."     "  Nay,  bless  God  't  is  so, 

That  this  enchantment  lingers  when  I  go  ! 

Sing,  golden  birds,  to  every  summer's  rose, 

And  flutter,  dappled  streamers,  in  the  sun  ! 

Sick  hearts  will  hail  the  beauty  and  repose 

Of  all  these  hands  have  gladly,  fondly  done. 

Come  always  from  the  city's  noise  and  heat  ; 

Take  of  true  life  renewed  and  happy  lease. 

Not  face  to  face,  but  soul  to  soul  we  meet  ; 

The  past  idealized,  the  future  peace." 


130 


COULD  WE  BUT  KNOW  ! 


Could  we  but  know  the  substance  from  the  shadow, 

Behold  the  subtle  process  of  the  mind, 
The  lights,  the  glooms,  like  cloud-rifts  o'er  a  meadow, 

If  only  Faith  were  not  so  weak  and  blind  ! 
If  underneath  the  smile,  the  glamour  weaving 

That  gold-shot  fabric — our  own  heart's  desires — 
Could  we  but  know  the  truth,  nor  self-deceiving, 

Feed  high  the  incense  of  Love's  altar  fires  ; — 
If  our  own  souls  were  but  the  magic  mirrors 

Reflecting  all  the  beautiful,  the  pure  ; 
Detecting  fraud,  yet  pitiful  of  errors, 

Still  Love  and  Faith,  transcendent,  might  endure. 
But  life  has  worn  tear-channels  in  the  spirit, 

And  wrong  and  sorrow  cruel  doubts  have  nursed  ; 
131 


J32  COULD    WE    BUT    KNOW  ! 

The  new-born  king,  alas  !  he  must  inherit 
The  pain,  if  all  the  splendor  of  the  first  ! 

Alas  !  with  eyes  we  see  not,  grope  and  falter, 
And  miss  the  sunshine  in  the  way  we  go  ; 

Reject  the  gold,  with  dross  and  tinsel  palter,— 
Yet  Heaven  is  near  us,  if  we  could  but  know. 


THEODORE    PARKER. 


If  we  who  never  looked  upon  our  friend, 
Or  heard  the  voice  in  holy  counsel  sweet 
That  set  the  world's  great  heart  to  love's  soft  beat, 
With  trembling  eagerness  our  mite  would  send, 
(Yet  knowing  that  such  life  can  never  end,) 
With  what  devotion  will  the  hands  he  prest 
Shower  grateful  tribute  on  their  leader's  rest  ! 
He  man  and  truth  unfaltering  did  defend, 
Breathing  warm  life  into  a  dying  faith  ; 
Reversing  the  grim  order  of  "  the  blood," 
Cried  :  "  Lo  !  redemption  in  a  perfect  life  ! 
A  Saviour  only  in  unending  good  !  " 
Gave  smiling  challenge  unto  gentle  Death  ; 
His  heaven  hath  in  hush  of  human  strife. 


i33 


EMERSON. 


Never  alone  again,  since  I  have  found 

The  treasure  of  the  jewels  of  thy  mind — 

Richer  than  Ormus,  or  the  fairest  bound 

Of  Persian  beauty  poets  joy  to  find  ! 

Do  I  behold  the  starry  realms  above, 

Or  walk  the  fields,  or  in  the  forest  lie, 

Thy  matchless  thoughts  all  loveliness  approve  ; 

The  winds  repeat  them  in  each  passing  sigh, 

Birds  sing  thy  messages  of  truth  and  praise, 

The  ferns  repeat  thy  wisdom  to  the  flowers, 

The  river  murmurs  of  thy  soul's  calm  ways 

Beyond  the  mists  that  cloud  our  feeble  powers  ! 

And  life,  love,  duty,  by  thy  royal  side, — 

All  things,  O  sage  through  thee  are  glorified  ! 


WENDELL  PHILLIPS. 


AT  SEVENTY  YEARS. 

Seventy  !  thy  winter  has  the  air  of  June 
When  apple  blossoms  have  displaced  the  snow  ; 
The  heart  of  youth  in  thy  blue  eyes  aglow, 
And  thy  great  spirit  like  the  magic  rune, 
The  key  heroic  that  has  set  the  tune 
To  man's  enfranchisement  from  bonds  and  woe, 
And  woman's  grand  advancement.     If  to  know 
Time's  mighty  secrets ;  to  enrich  and  prune 
The  lusty  growths  of  this  auspicious  age  ; 
To  sound  such  thrilling  notes  as  never  Pan 
Piped  in  Arcadia,  lover  true  of  man  ! — 
Not  to  have  heard  thee,  were  fate's  irony  ; 
And  having  seen  thy  soul's  illumined  page, 
Who  is  not  hence  thy  loyal  votary  ? 


TO  PETER  COOPER. 


ON    HIS    NINETY-SECOND    BIRTHDAY. 

How  manhood  redeemeth  his  promise  to  pay 

In  the  gold  of  the  sunset  illuming  his  day  ! 

No  counterfeit  here, — not  a  grain  of  alloy ! 

Past  ninety,  you  say  ?     He  is  only  a  boy  ! 

Heart  of  oak,  sound  to  core,   with   a   garland   of 

snows, 

Life's  juices  like  wine,  aye,  as  red  as  the  rose 
That  runs  up  the  signal  of  summer  to-night, 
From   his   heart   to   his   cheek,  putting   winter  to 

flight. 

The  gods  of  the  Greeks  had  their  temples  ;    and  he 

Is  shrined  in  the  temple  he  reared  to  the  free, 

136 


TO    PETER    COOPER.  137 

In  the  hearts  he  has  blessed,  in  the  lives  he  has  set 
To  the  psalm  of  true  living  they  cannot  forget  ; 
And  his  praises  are  sung  in  the  click  of  the  wire, 
The  ring  of  the  chisel,  the  crucible's  fire  ; 
The  canvas  reveals  him,  the  press  will  acclaim 
The  type  he  has  set  for  the  annals  of  fame. 

I  stood  by  the  altars  to  Labor  he  reared  ; 
The  incense  of  love  to  the  God  he  revered 
Was  the  breath  of  young  lips  in  the  eager  pursuit 
Of  the  good  and  the  great — ah  !  the  coveted  fruit 
Never  reached,  but  his  wise  and  beneficent  hand 
Had  lowered  the  bough  ;  gentle  lord  of  the  land, 
Golden  apples  he  gave,  toiling  millions  to  feed, 
And  we  measure  the  man  by  the  measureless  deed. 

Again  I  beheld,  through  the  mist  of  my  tears, 
This  soul  in  white  raiment  of  beautiful  years. 
The  man  whose  calm  life  was  like  rivers  that  flow 
The  deeper  and  purer  that  silent  below 


138  TO   PETER   COOPER. 

The  broad  channel  holds  its  glad  way  to  the  sea 
Of  the  infinite  love  ;  happy  toiler  is  he, 
For  we  reap  as  we  sow  ;  noble  effort  and  aim 
Have  crowned  him  with  honor  and  hallowed  his 
name. 

When  the   even  has   come  the  good  farmer  looks 

back 

If  his  furrows  are  deep,  in  unvarying  track  ; 
To  his  vision  bright  blades,  silken  banners  in  line 
Are  waving,  of  harvest  rich  promise  and  sign. 
And  our  Peter  the  Great,  in  reviewing  his  past, 
By  the  straight  lines  of  duty  finds  blessing  at  last. 
Nay,  the  flowers  that  spring  from  the  footsteps  of 

care 
More  fragrant  than  lilies  the  idler  may  wear. 

Long  live  !   noble  builder  to  all  that  is  best, 
Oh  late  bloom  the  lily  that  shadows  thy  rest ! 


TO    PETER    COOPER.  139 

Flag  of  truce  Death  shall  fling  from  his  shallop  of 

gold 
As  you  drift  to  the  land  where  love  never  grows 

old. 

For  the  ships  that  put  out  from  the  Beautiful  Isles, 
Are  fanned  by  the  angels  and  freighted  with  smiles. 
Lo,  the  harbor  is  calm,  and  its  Master  divine  : 
His  rates  are  all  just  upon  thine  and  on  mine. 


NAMING   THE    FLOWER. 


TO    F.  L. 

Nay,  breathe  not  my  name  to  your  yacht  or  white 

steed, 

Your  hunter  or  falcon,  but  grant  me  to  read 
My  name  in  the  glorious  song  that  was  born 
On  your  lips,  with  the  sea  in  your  soul,  yestermorn  ; 
That  study  in  clouds  that  you  sketched  at  Glen- 

coe, — 

Those  drifts  in  the  moonlight  are  whiter  than  snow  ; 
Let  me  see  my  initials  above  your  last  gem, — 
I  admire  it,  if  all  the  cross  critics  condemn  ; 
Or  if,  of  all  loveliest  things  you  would  dower 
With  the  name  of  your  friend,  may  I  live  in  a 

flower  ! 

140 


NAMING    THE    FLOWER.  141 

The  song  and  the  picture,  the  fair  flowing  line, 

Are  music,  and  beauty,  and  life.     How  divine 

To  dwell  in  the  arts,  to  inhabit  a  rose 

Like  the  sea-haunted  shell !  what  enchanting  repose 

To  sleep  in  the  pearl-crusted,  odorous  cell 

Of  the  wind-shaken,  cream-tinted,  luminous  bell, 

Awake  to  the  tale  the  bright  humming-bird  sings, 

Entranced  by  his  eyes,  and  beguiled  by  his  wings, 

That  weave  their  swift  spells  over  vision  and  brain, 

Until  sound  is  a  rainbow,  half  bliss  and  half  pain  ! 

Let  me   reign   in   the  heart  of  the  queen  of  the 

fair, — 

In  her  robes  of  the  samite   the  angels  may  wear,— 
And  learn  the  sweet  secrets  the  hermit  thrush  told 
When  the  red  moon  had  turned  all  her  tear-drops 

to  gold, 

And  the  fountain  was  silent  with  envy,  and  they 
(The  poor  faded  loves  of  the  passionate  day) 


142  NAMING    THE    FLOWER. 

Were  dying  around  her.     O  rose  of  the  South  ! 
Let  me  dream,  let  me  die  on  her  tremulous  mouth  ! 
For  the  soul  of  the  rose  is  the  life  she  has  brought 
From  Eden  to  bloom  in  a  poet's  clear  thought. 
The  blush,  the  rich  lustre,  the  veinings  we  trace, 
Of  the  earth  are  they  earthy  ? — immortal  the  race  ! 
No  rose  that  is  perfect  dies  out  of  the  world. 
Will  the  star  that  you  love  from  its  orbit  be  hurled  ? 

Roses  live  in  the  heart,  though  the  heart  may  forget 
The  face  of  a  lover  ;  they  sharpen  regret, 
They  consecrate  joy,  they  dissolve  in  soft  rain  ; 
They  breathe  in  the  young  mother's  lullaby  strain  ; 
They  felt  the  pure  touch  of  the  Master  and  smiled, 
"  And  of  such  is  the  kingdom,"  the  rose  and  the 

child. 

They  kindle  the  roseate  tint  of  the  cheek, 
And  laugh  in  the  dimple  confessions  bespeak  ; 
They  kiss  the  cold  fingers  when  kissing  is  past 
For  our  lips  that  must  hunger  in  vain  to  the  last. 


NAMING    THE    FLOWER.  143 

Then  wait  until  summer  has  burgeoned  to  flame, 
And  the  rose  of  your  sowing  shall  ask  for  her  name. 
With  dew-drops  the  sunrise  has  reddened  to  wine, 
Baptize  this  Canadian  new  namesake  of  mine  ; — 
Speak  low,  lest  the  blight  of  my  sorrow  shall  close 
Like  death  round  the  heart  of  your  beautiful  rose. 


RELUCTANCE. 


I  marvel  much  that  dying  eyes  should  turn 
Regretfully  on  the  imperilled  way, 

The  road  once  travelled  ;    e'en  its   scattered 

flowers 

Or  cool  white  stones  marking  some  happy  day  ; 
Why  shrink  from  shadow  of  a  simple  urn  ? 

(Goal  of  the  journey,  this  forced  march  of  ours) 
If  crowned  with  roses  or  with  wayside  weeds, 
Why  weeping  falter  in  the  song  that  ends 

In  trembling  pathos,  howsoe'er  it  ranged, 
Without  encore  from  any  of  the  friends 
Who  praise  or  blame  our  good  or  evil  deeds, 

Whose  constancy  no  errors  have  estranged  ? 

Their  loving  hands  our  falling  curtains  stay, 

144  » 


RELUCTANCE.  145 

And  like  as  wayward  children  closer  cling, 
Unto  the  gentle  bosom  that  they  wound, 
We  seek  the  shelter  of  love's  tender  wing, 
When  fall  the  dews  of  life's  departing  day, 

Nor  fear  to  stray  beyond  sweet  mercy's  bound. 


WITH  A  SEA-SHELL. 


"  Our  ship  was  like  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean." — COLERIDGE. 

God  send  thy  good  ships  all  to  thee, 

The  white-winged  messengers  that  swept 

O'er  fancy's  fair  and  shoreless  sea, 

The  gallant  ships  where  sunbeams  slept. 

Where  never  tempest  dark  and  dread 
Careered,  or  lightning's  lurid  glare 

Menaced  thy  lovely  drooping  head, 
Like  flowers  that  bend  in  silent  prayer. 

Come  ships  full  freighted  with  the  stores 

Of  India's  sandal-wood  and  gems, 
146 


WITH    A    SEA-SHELL.  147 

The  shining  fabrics  of  the  shores 

That  hoard  the  Old  World's  diadems  ; 

The  perfumes  caught  from  roses  pressed 

In  trembling  joy  by  dying  hands  ; 
Or  pearls  some  Naiad  love  has  blessed, 

Has  dreaming  strewn  on  golden  sands. 

Oh,  flying  ships  that  kiss  the  waves, 
Sail  on  around  this  changing  world, 

Bring  hope  and  peace  to  all  the  graves 
Where  Faith  her  dewy  pinions  furled ! 

Oh,  bear  to  her  a  woman's  thought, 

Bring  truth  and  love  and  length  of  days, 

The  sweet  content  by  patience  wrought, 
The  deeds  that  have  no  need  of  praise  ! 


RED   ROSES. 


Let  not  the  drifted  snow  of  lilies  white 

Press  my  dead  heart,  but  roses  red  as  flame  ; 
It  will  be  morning  then  ;  the  stormy  night 

Gone  like  the  discords  of  some  martial  strain 
Heard  all  too  near — in  the  dim  distance  sweet. 

O  rose  of  life  !  that  struggled  to  the  light, 
At  last  unfolding,  beautiful,  complete, 

To  bud  and  bloom  forever  in  His  sight ! 


148 


ORIENT. 


They  tell  the  heart  's  hushed  secret  in  a  Rose, 
And  with  an  unclosed  bud  lovers  reveal 

The  passion  pure  and  ardent,  that  yet  glows 
The  brighter  with  all  efforts  to  conceal. 


149 


REMEMBER   ME. 


Remember  me, — not  for  my  eyes  or  voice, 
Or  the  old  charm  you  found  in  smile  or  air, 
Or  sunny  tints  you  loved  in  my  dark  hair, 
Or  any  word  that  bade  you  to  rejoice, 
Or  aught,  my  darling,  in  which  you  have  choice  ; 
But  for  the  memories  that  still  must  be 
The  soul  of  life, — for  these  remember  me. 


150 


TO  A  GIRL  WITH  A  WATER-LILY. 


But  yesterday  this  peerless  thing, 

A  swaying  censer  in  the  light 
Of  crystal  wave  and  glancing  wing, 

Made  the  St.  Lawrence  white. 
I  marked  it  from  the  old  canoe, 

The  fairest  of  the  fleet, 
"  And  only,  Golden  Hair,  for  you," 

I  said,  "  this  prize  is  meet. 
Pirate  of  that  enchanted  sea 
I  bring  my  spoils,  sweetheart,  to  thee  !  " 

O  bending  skies  of  amethyst  ! 

O  river  grand  !  I  dare 
To  turn  again,  O  Time,  and  list 

The  whispered  vow  and  prayer  ; 
151 


152  TO    A    GIRL    WITH    A    WATER-LILY. 

To  live  again  that  royal  hour 
That  drained  life's  golden  wine, 

That  left  me  neither  wish  nor  power 
To  win  and  wear  the  vine  ; 

A  dreamer  drifting  with  the  tide, 

With  smiling  front  of  maiden  pride. 

Could  we  have  known,  my  love  and  I, 

How  many  lovely  moons  would  kiss 
The  lilies  in  this  mimic  sky, 

How  much  the  heart  may  miss, 
Yet  bravely  o'er  the  tide  of  tears 

The  circling  waves  of  light  uphold 
A  snowy  banner  changing  years 

Have  starred  with  hearts  of  gold, 
We  had  not  murmured  !    Dear  one,  see  ! 
Emblem  of  peace  I  give  to  thee. 


LOST. 

The  barren  moor,  the  forest  dark, 

Gray  frowning  cliffs  and  blackened  sky, 

The  still,  deep  lake — a  plunge — and  hark  ! 
Was  that  the  bittern's  mournful  cry 
From  out  the  stately  rushes  nigh  ? 

How  wails  the  wind  !  and  something  white 
A  moment  drifts  the  lilies  by  ; 

Are  angels  upon  guard  to-night  ? 
Hark  !  once  again  the  bittern's  cry 
Among  the  rushes  stark  and  high. 

A  maiden's  footstep  in  the  sand — 
A  scarf,  with  dainty  glove  near  by — 

Ah,  well !  the  white  and  perfect  hand, 

i53 


154  LOST. 

With  rival  lilies  it  will  lie  !— 

Was  that  the  bittern's  warning  cry  ? 

O  love  !  how  sweet  (e'en  unto  death) 
At  that  weird  hour  the  rushes  sigh  ! 

The  night  wind  softly  holds  its  breath 
To  hear,  perchance,  the  bittern's  cry — 
Then  murmurs  :   "  Love,  betrayed,  must  die  !  " 


TWO  LITTLE  GRAVES. 


Side  by  side  two  tiny  hillocks,  just  as  little  lambs 

may  meet, 
That  have  wandered  from  the  fallows  to  the  daisied 

meadows  sweet, 
Sleeping  in  the  blessed  sunshine,  hearing  not  the 

mother's  bleat. 

One  was  borne  to  peaceful  slumber  when  the  sun 
set's  crimson  dyes 

On  her  catafalque  of  lilies  fell  in  royal  draperies, 
And  a  train  of  stately  mourners  looked  farewell  with 
tearless  eyes. 

And  I  seemed  to  hear  the  mother,  who  had  crossed 

the  silent  sea 

i55 


1 56  TWO    LITTLE    GRAVES. 

To   await   that   angel-voyager    in    her   snow-white 

argosy, 
Cry,  Hosanna !  to  the  Saviour,  once  a  babe  in 

Galilee. 

But  the  other,  in  the  dawning  of  a  bitter  April  day, 
When  the  frozen  tears  of  heaven  on  the  pale  arbutus 

lay, 
Was   borne  out  in  pauper's  coffin  by  the    sexton, 

stern  and  gray. 

Never  glow  of  bud  or  leaflet  on  that  little  sinless 

breast ; 
Never  toll  of  bell,  or  chanting  blessed  words  of  holy 

rest, — 
Only  sobs  of  mortal  anguish  of  a  sinner  unconfessed. 

Not  a  meeting,  but  a  parting ;  mother  still,  though 
never  wed  ; 


TWO    LITTLE    GRAVES.  157 

And  a  haunting  face  beside  her,  looking  down  upon 

their  dead, — 
O  beguiling  face,  and  craven  !     "  Thou  dost  judge 

him,  God  !  "  she  said. 

"  If  I  dare  not  look  the  way  she  went  for  keen  re 
morse,  O  Lord  ! 

What  of  him  who  lured  me  onward  by  distortion  of 
Thy  word  ? 

Yet  for  him  the  world  has  honors,  and  for  me  the 
flaming  sword  !  " 

But  He  hears  who  heeds  the  sparrows,  who  hath 

justice  for  us  all  ; 
Both  the  lambs  within   His  bosom,  is  he  deaf  to 

spirit  call  ? 
Nay  ;  His  arm  of  sweet  compassion — it  will  break 

the  woman's  fall. 


IN  REMEMBRANCE. 


M.  E.  T. 


If  sunbeams  could  be  held  and  braided 

Within  the  meshes  of  her  hair, 
If  orient  pearls  by  rosebuds  shaded 

Had  made  her  cheeks  so  softly  fair, 
If  violets  could  smile  serenely 

As  did  her  shining  eyes — to  me 
The  secret  of  her  beauty  queenly 

No  more  a  mystery  would  be. 

If  you  have  plucked  the  scented  clover, 

And  drank  the  sweets  of  white  and  red, 
Perhaps  they  breathed  the  story  over 

Of  all  her  sweeter  lips  have  said. 
158 


IN    REMEMBRANCE.  159 

If  you  have  heard  the  song  of  thrushes 
From  summer  meadows  borne  along, 

Perhaps  those  clear,  melodious  gushes, 
Repeat  the  gladness  of  her  song. 

Thou  source  of  beauty,  joy,  and  blessing, 

Who  hast  to  thine  own  realms  of  love 
Removed  from  our  too  fond  caressing 

This  darling  flower,  to  bloom  above, — 
We  thank  Thee  that  in  thousand  phases 

These  hints  and  tokens  Thou  hast  given, 
That  we  may  keep  her  earthly  graces, 

And  dream  of  what  she  is  in  Heaven. 


THE  BROOK. 


Two  streams  divide  the  little  town 
Where  I  abide,  and  one 

Is  dusk  beneath  the  hazel's  brown, 
And  silver  in  the  sun. 

God  never  made  a  purer  thing, 
Or  one  more  glad,  I  know, 

And  always  in  the  happy  spring, 
When  fires  of  sunset  glow, 

I  seek  the  comfort  of  its  face, 

The  music  of  its  voice  ; 
And  in  my  mossy  hiding-place 

With  nature  I  rejoice. 
1 60 


THE    BROOK.  l6l 

The  alders  dip  their  tassels  red 

Where  minnows  love  to  sport, 
And  in  the  willows  overhead 

Loquacious  martins  court. 

Afar  the  lowing  of  the  herd, 

The  little  ones  at  play, 
The  distant  bell,  or  song  of  bird, 

The  hush  of  dying  day  ; 

Low  sighing  of  the  solemn  wind, 

Soft  ripple  of  the  waves, 
Remembered  melodies  that  find 

Their  way  among  the  graves. 

Where  tiny  brave  anemones 

And  nun-like  violet, 
Lost  in  such  saintly  reverie 

Of  love  and  vain  regret, 


l62  THE    BROOK. 

That  woven  with  sweet  eglantine, 
Our  human  tenderness 

Dear  vanished  faces  can  define, 
With  not  a  smile  the  less. 

And  often  when  the  blessed  rain 
Has  overflowed  the  brook, 

I  hear  my  baby  coo  again 
From  out  the  ferny  nook. 

Then,  if  a  fleecy  cloud  is  borne 
Along  this  mirror  fair, 

I  say  it  is  the  raiment  worn 
By  beings  of  the  air. 

Oft  when  the  golden  nets  are  cast 
Adown  the  azure  deep, 

I  see  a  white  sail  drifting  past, 
Stretch  out  my  arms  and  weep. 


THE   BROOK.  163 

As  starving  castaway  may  cry 

To  homeward  bark  in  vain  : 
I  hail  the  life-boat  drawing  nigh 

To  rescue  from  all  pain. 

Thus  nature  keepeth  sacrament, 

And  folds  us  in  embrace  ; 
So  tender  and  beneficent 

We  see  our  Father's  face. 

O  mothers  !  if  ye  only  knew 

How  the  white  raiment  of  your  prayers 
Clings  to  the  soul,  when  lost  to  view 

The  splendid  robes  the  body  wears, — 
The  children  might  be  clothed  upon 
With  light  like  His,  the  Holy  One  ! 


THE  GRAVE. 


The  grave  is  cruel ;  for  it  bars  the  deed 
Of  latent  mercy,  presses  down  the  scale 

Of  justice  with  a  miser's  hungry  greed — 

'Gainst  frozen  hearts  what  can  our  tears  avail  ? 

The  grave  is  silent  ;  answer  it  has  none, 
Although  you  cry  repentant  till  you  faint — 

Always  beneath  the  cold,  accusing  stone 
Lieth  a  shrined  and  consecrated  saint. 

The  grave  is  mighty  ;  'gainst  it  your  appeal 

Beats  like  the  surges  on  the  flinty  rock  ; 
The  pleading  bosom  pressing  tempered  steel 

Hath  only  wounds  and  anguish  for  the  shock. 
164 


THE    GRAVE.  165 

The  grave  is  rich  ;  your  dearest  treasures  lie 
Shut  from  your  longing — hair  of  beaten  gold, 

The  ruby  lips,  the  sapphire  beaming  eye, 
Pearls  fair  and  perfect  as  the  sea-kings  hold. 

The  grave  is  patient  ;  flowers  come  and  go, 
The  robins  wait  expectant  every  spring 

To  herald  any  protest  from  below 

Against  the  charges  that  the  world  may  bring. 

The  grave  is  just ;  for  always,  soon  or  late, 
The  exile  cometh  to  his  own  again, 

For  time  reverses  false  decrees  of  fate — 
The  martyr  liveth,  loved  of  gods  and  men. 

The  grave  's  a  haven  for  the  sorrow-crost — 
How  calm  they  sleep  who  enter  into  rest  ! 

What  if  they  find  the  dreams  they  weeping  lost, 
The  real  life — and  wake  divinely  blest  ! 


l66  THE    GRAVE. 

The  grave  is  constant  ;  it  will  fail  you  not 

Though  friends  forsake  and  fortune  from  you 
flies — 

Honors  elude — one  little  sheltered  spot 
Hath  soft,  cool  grasses  for  your  tired  eyes. 

The  grave — I  marvel  we  should  fear  to  go 

Where  one  by  one  the  dear  ones  passed  from 

sight. 

Our  hands  are  in  the  Father's,  and  we  know 
His  love  is  'round  us,  be  it  day  or  night. 


A   NOCTURNE. 


To-night  fair  Venus  to  her  breast 
Such  shield  of  woven  amethyst 
And  flaming  rubies,  opals,  prest, 
That  all  the  vast  star-studded  west — 
A  sea  of  fire — 

Rolled  in  great  waves  of  wondrous  light, 
Too  radiant  for  mortal  sight ; 
The  new-born  moon,  a-tremble,  white, 
As  tender  babes  that  shrink  in  fright 
When  lights  expire  ; 

And  Mars,  red  orb  fair  swinging  free, 
Revealing  snowy  poles  and  sea 

Of  azure  ;  all  immensity 
167 


l68  A    NOCTURNE. 

Pervaded  with  sweet  harmony  ; 
Soul  mounting  higher, 

I  heard  the  vibrant  chords  of  those 
Great  hearts  that  sang  as  sings  the  rose, 
When  first  its  passionless  repose 
Is  broken  by  the  song  that  glows 
With  pained  desire, — 

Until,  like  cymbals  clashing  clear, 
Each  lovely  flashing,  singing  sphere 
The  secrets  of  its  changing  year 
Disclosing  to  the  spirit's  ear, 
The  mighty  lyre 

Of  nature,  smote  by  minstrels  old, 
The  sons  of  God,  as  sages  told, 
With  trailing  robes  of  gems  and  gold, 
From  world  to  world  grand  peans  rolled 
Forever  nigher  ! 


A    NOCTURNE. 

All  the  great  masters  slowly  beat 
The  measure  of  Love's  nocturne  sweet, 
While  severed  hearts  like  lilies  meet 
On  crystal  tides,  in  murmurs  greet 
The  starry  pyre 

That  kindles  with  divinest  flame, 
Responsive  to  each  sacred  name 
That  holds  the  threefold  blessed  claim 
Of  music's  chosen,  in  the  fane 
Of  God,  our  Sire  ! 

But  over  all  the  notes  that  stirred 
The  deeps,  that  e'en  Nirvana  heard, 
There  every  lost  and  happy  bird 
Awoke  to  learn  and  voiced  in  word 
Aspire  !  aspire  ! 

Oh,  sweeter  than  all  waters  wild, 
Or  winds  that  whisper  low  and  mild 


170  A    NOCTURNE. 

Or  prayers  beside  the  undefiled, 
His  liquid  notes  the  little  child, — 
Too  soon  to  tire 

Of  discords  that  this  low  estate 
Yields  jarringly  to  souls  elate 
With  echoes  of  the  blessed  fate 
Immortals  chant,  beyond  the  gate 
Of  Death  how  dire  ! — 

Our  angel  sang,  as  sing  shall  these 
Bright  sisters,  fairest  Pleiades, 
As  seraphs  sound  the  mysteries 
Of  our  transcendent  destinies 
With  lips  of  fire  ! 

And  ever  from  the  starry  space 
The  beautiful  young  music  face, 
Her  wooing,  winning,  flowery  grace, 


A    NOCTURNE.  171 

Still  drew  me  on  to  blest  embrace,— 
O  lost  desire  ! 

This  "  song  of  songs  "  rang  out,  like  bells 
In  dreams,  from  fragrant  lily  cells  : 
"  Who  seeketh  Mercy's  holy  wells 
Hath  peace  that  earthly  joy  excels, 
As  harps  of  wire 

11  Attuned  to  hallowed  keys  that  keep 
True  time  with  Nature,  pure  and  deep  ; 
O  mothers  !  smile  !  but  never  weep 
For  those  our  Father's  love  shall  keep 
From  sin's  black  mire  !  " 

THE    END 


It 


M191888 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


